bp  William  JfflacLeofc  Kaine 

PUBLISHED    BY 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN   COMPANY 


THE  SHERIFF'S  SON.  Illustrated. 
THE  YUKON  TRAIL.    Illustrated. 
STEVE  YEAGER.     Illustrated. 


The  Sheriff's  Son 


When  Meldruin  came  in  answer  to  her  summons,  he  met  the  shock  of 
his  life  (page  179) 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

By 
William  MacLeod  Raine 


With  Illustrations  by 
Harold  Cue 


Boston  and  New  York 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company 


1918 


COPYRIGHT,   1917   AND   1918,   BY   FRANK  A.   MUNSKY  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,   1918,    BY  WILLIAM   MACLEOD  RAINE 


ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO 

ROBERT  H.  DAVIS 

WHO  WITH  HIS  USUAL  GENEROSITY  TO  WRITERS 

MADE   THE  AUTHOR   A   PRESENT 

OF   THE   GERM   IDEA 

OF   THIS   PLOT 


M358S5 


Contents 

Foreword 1 

I.  Dingwell  Gives  Three  Cheers  ...  18 

II.  Dave  Caches  a  Gunnysack      ...  30 

III.  The  Old-Timer  Sits  into  a  Big  Game  .  44 

IV.  Royal  Beaudry  Hears  a  Call  ...  57 
V.  The  Hill  Girl 74 

VI.  "Cherokee  Street" 85 

VII.  Jess  Tighe  Spins  a  Web    ....     98 
VIII.  Beulah  Asks  Questions      .       .       .       .108 

IX.  The  Man  on  the  Bed 120 

X.  Dave  Takes  a  Ride 136 

XI.  Tighe  Weaves  his  Web  Tighter     .       .  145 

XII.  Stark  Fear 160 

XIII.  Beulah  Interferes 171 

XIV.  Personally  Escorted 183 

XV.  The  Bad  Man 193 

XVI.  Roy  is  Invited  to  Take  a  Drink    .       .  202 

XVII.  Roy  Improves  the  Shining  Hours  .       .  218 

XVIII.  Rutherford  Answers  Questions      .       .  225 

vii 


Contents 

XIX.  Beaudry  Blows  a  Smoke  Wreath      .  234 

XX.  At  the  Lazy  Double  D  .       .       .       .246 

XXI.  Roy  Rides  his  Paint  Hoss    .      .       .255 

XXII.  Miss  Rutherford  Speaks  her  Mind      268 

XXIII.  In  the  Pit 279 

XXIV.  The  Bad  Man  Decides  not  to  Shoot   291 
XXV.  Two  and  a  Camp-Fire  .       .       .       .303 

XXVI.  The  Sins  of  the  Fathers        .       .       .317 

XXVII.  The  Quicksands 324 

XXVIII.  Pat  Ryan  Evens  an  Old  Score   .       .  334 
XXIX.  A  New  Leaf  .  341 


Illustrations 

When  Meldrum  came  in  answer  to  her  summons, 
he  met  the  shock  of  his  life  .  .  .  Frontispiece 

The  quirt,  wrong  end  to,  danced  up  and  down 
clutched  in  his  flying  fist 32 

"Then  sit  here,  damn  ye!" 70 

With  a  gesture  wholly  savage  and  feminine  her 
firm  arms  crept  about  his  neck  and  fastened 
there  .  314 


The  Sheriff's  Son 


Foreword 

fTlHROUGH  the  mesquite  a  horse  moved 
A  deviously,  following  the  crooked  trail  of 
least  resistance.  A  man  was  in  the  saddle  and 
in  front  of  him  a  little  boy  nodding  with  sleep. 
The  arm  of  the  rider  cradled  the  youngster 
against  the  lurches  of  the  pony's  gait. 

The  owner  of  the  arm  looked  down  at  the  tired 
little  bundle  it  was  supporting.  A  wistful  tender- 
ness was  in  the  leathery  face.  To  the  rest  of  the 
world  he  was  a  man  of  iron.  To  this  wee  bit  of 
humanity  he  was  a  nurse,  a  playmate,  a  slave. 

"We're  'most  to  the  creek  now,  son.  Onc't 
we  get  there,  we'll  throw  off  and  camp.  You 
can  eat  a  snack  and  tumble  right  off  to  bye-low 
land,"  he  promised. 

The  five-year-old  smiled  faintly  and  snuggled 
closer.  His  long  lashes  drooped  again  to  the 
soft  cheeks.  With  the  innocent  selfishness  of 
a  child  he  accepted  the  love  that  sheltered  him 
from  all  troubles. 

1 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

A  valley  opened  below  the  mesa,  the  trail 
falling  abruptly  almost  from  the  hoofs  of  the 
horse.  Beaudry  drew  up  and  looked  down. 
From  rim  to  rim  the  meadow  was  perhaps  half 
a  mile  across.  Seen  from  above,  the  bed  of  it 
was  like  an  emerald  lake  through  which  wound 
a  ribbon  of  silver.  This  ribbon  was  Big  Creek. 
To  the  right  it  emerged  from  a  draw  in  the  foot- 
hills where  green  reaches  of  forest  rose  tier  after 
tier  toward  the  purple  mountains.  Far  up  among 
these  peaks  Big  Creek  had  its  source  in  Lost 
Lake,  which  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  glacier  near  the 
top  of  the  world. 

The  saw-toothed  range  lifted  its  crest  into  a 
sky  of  violet  haze.  Half  an  hour  since  the  sun 
had  set  in  a  blaze  of  splendor  behind  a  crotch 
of  the  hills,  but  dusk  had  softened  the  vivid 
tints  of  orange  and  crimson  and  scarlet  to  a 
faint  pink  glow.  Already  the  mountain  silhou- 
ette had  lost  its  sharp  edge  and  the  outlines 
were  blurring.  Soon  night  would  sift  down  over 
the  roof  of  the  continent. 

The  eyes  of  the  man  searched  warily  the 
valley  below.  They  rested  closely  on  the  willows 
by  the  ford,  the  cottonwood  grove  to  the  left, 
and  the  big  rocks  beyond  the  creek.  From  its 
case  beneath  his  leg  he  took  the  sa wed-off  shot- 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

gun  loaded  with  buckshot.  It  rested  on  the 
pommel  of  the  saddle  while  his  long  and  careful 
scrutiny  swept  the  panorama.  The  spot  was 
an  ideal  one  for  an  ambush. 

His  unease  communicated  itself  to  the  boy, 
who  began  to  whimper  softly.  Beaudry,  dis- 
tressed, tried  to  comfort  him. 

"Now,  don't  you,  son  —  don't  you.  Dad 
ain't  going  to  let  anything  hurt  you-all." 

Presently  he  touched  the  flank  of  his  roan 
with  a  spur  and  the  animal  began  to  pick  its 
way  down  the  steep  trail  among  the  loose  rub- 
ble. Not  for  an  instant  did  the  rider  relax  his 
vigilance  as  he  descended.  At  the  ford  he  exam- 
ined the  ground  carefully  to  make  sure  that 
nobody  had  crossed  since  the  shower  of  the 
afternoon.  Swinging  to  the  saddle  again,  he 
put  his  horse  to  the  water  and  splashed  through 
to  the  opposite  shore.  Once  more  he  dis- 
mounted and  studied  the  approach  to  the  creek. 
No  tracks  had  written  their  story  on  the  sand 
in  the  past  few  hours.  Yet  with  every  sense 
alert  he  led  the  way  to  the  cottonwood  grove 
where  he  intended  to  camp.  Not  till  he  had 
made  a  tour  of  the  big  rocks  and  a  clump  of 
prickly  pears  adjoining  was  his  mind  easy. 

He  came  back  to  find  the  boy  crying. 

3 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"What's  the  matter,  big  son?"  he  called 
cheerily.  "Nothing  a-tall  to  be  afraid  of. 
This  nice  camping-ground  fits  us  like  a  coat 
of  paint.  You-all  take  forty  winks  while  dad 
fixes  up  some  supper." 

He  spread  his  slicker  and  rolled  his  coat  for 
a  pillow,  fitting  it  snugly  to  the  child's  head. 
While  he  lit  a  fire  he  beguiled  the  time  with 
animated  talk.  One  might  have  guessed  that 
he  was  trying  to  make  the  little  fellow  forget 
the  alarm  that  had  been  stirred  in  his  mind. 

"Sing  the  liT  ole  hawss,"  commanded  the 
boy,  reducing  his  sobs. 

Beaudry  followed  orders  in  a  tuneless  voice 
that  hopped  gayly  up  and  down.  He  had  in- 
vented words  and  music  years  ago  as  a  lullaby 
and  the  song  was  in  frequent  demand. 

"  LiT  ole  hawss  an'  liT  ole  cow, 
Amblin'  along  by  the  ole  haymow, 
LiT  ole  hawss  took  a  bite  an'  a  chew, 

'  Durned  if  I  don't,'  says  the  ole  cow,  too." 

Seventeen  stanzas  detailed  the  adventures 
of  this  amazing  horse  and  predatory  cow. 
Somewhere  near  the  middle  of  the  epic  little 
Royal  Beaudry  usually  dropped  asleep.  The 
rhythmic  tale  always  comforted  him.  These 
nameless  animals  were  very  real  friends  of  his.. 

4 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

They  had  been  companions  of  his  tenderest 
years.  He  loved  them  with  a  devotion  from 
which  no  fairy  tale  could  wean  him. 

Before  he  had  quite  surrendered  to  the  lullaby, 
his  father  aroused  him  to  share  the  bacon  and 
the  flapjacks  he  had  cooked. 

"Come  and  get  it,  big  son,"  Beaudry  called 
with  an  imitation  of  manly  roughness. 

The  boy  ate  drowsily  before  the  fire,  nodding 
between  bites. 

Presently  the  father  wrapped  the  lad  up 
snugly  in  his  blankets  and  prompted  him  while 
he  said  his  prayers.  No  woman's  hands  could 
have  been  tenderer  than  the  calloused  ones  of 
this  frontiersman.  The  boy  was  his  life.  For 
the  girl-bride  of  John  Beaudry  had  died  to  give 
this  son  birth. 

Beaudry  sat  by  the  dying  fire  and  smoked. 
The  hills  had  faded  to  black,  shadowy  outlines 
beneath  a  night  of  a  million  stars.  During  the 
day  the  mountains  were  companions,  heaven 
was  the  home  of  warm  friendly  sunshine  that 
poured  down  lance-straight  upon  the  traveler. 
But  now  the  black,  jagged  peaks  were  guards 
that  shut  him  into  a  vast  prison  of  loneliness. 
He  was  alone  with  God,  an  atom  of  no  conse- 
quence. Many  a  time,  when  he  had  looked  up 

5 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

into  the  sky  vault  from  the  saddle  that  was  his 
pillow,  he  had  known  that  sense  of  insignificance. 
To-night  the  thoughts  of  John  Beaudry  were 
somber.  He  looked  over  his  past  with  a  strange 
feeling  that  he  had  lived  his  life  and  come  to  the 
end  of  it.  He  was  not  yet  forty,  a  well-set,  bow- 
legged  man  of  medium  height,  in  perfect  health, 
sound  as  to  every  organ.  From  an  old  war 
wound  he  had  got  while  raiding  with  Morgan 
he  limped  a  little.  Two  more  recent  bullet  scars 
marked  his  body.  But  none  of  these  interfered 
with  his  activity.  He  was  in  the  virile  prime  of 
life;  yet  a  bell  rang  in  his  heart  the  warning  that 
he  was  soon  to  die.  That  was  why  he  was  taking 
his  little  son  out  of  the  country  to  safety. 

He  took  all  the  precautions  that  one  could, 
but  he  knew  that  in  the  end  these  would  fail 
him.  The  Rutherfords  would  get  him.  Of  that 
he  had  no  doubt.  They  would  probably  have 
killed  him,  anyhow,  but  he  had  made  his  sen- 
tence sure  when  he  had  shot  Anse  Rutherford 
and  wounded  Eli  Schaick  ten  days  ago.  That  it 
had  been  done  by  him  in  self-defense  made  no 
difference. 

Out  of  the  Civil  War  John  Beaudry  had  come 
looking  only  for  peace.  He  had  moved  West 
and  been  flung  into  the  wild,  turbulent  life  of 

6 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

the  frontier.  In  the  Big  Creek  country  there 
was  no  peace  for  strong  men  in  the  seventies. 
It  was  a  time  and  place  for  rustlers  and  horse- 
thieves  to  flourish  at  the  expense  of  honest  set- 
tlers. They  elected  their  friends  to  office  and 
laughed  at  the  law. 

But  the  tide  of  civilization  laps  forward.  A 
cattlemen's  association  had  been  formed.  Beau- 
dry,  active  as  an  organizer,  had  been  chosen  its 
first  president.  With  all  his  energy  he  had 
fought  the  rustlers.  When  the  time  came  to 
make  a  stand  the  association  nominated  Beau- 
dry  for  sheriff  and  elected  him.  He  had  prose- 
cuted the  thieves  remorselessly  in  spite  of 
threats  and  shots  in  the  dark.  Two  of  them  had 
been  put  by  him  behind  bars.  Others  were 
awaiting  trial.  The  climax  had  come  when  he 
met  Anse  Rutherford  and  his  companion  at 
Battle  Butte,  had  defeated  them  both  single- 
handed,  and  had  left  one  dead  on  the  field  and 
the  other  badly  wounded. 

Men  said  that  John  Beaudry  was  one  of  the 
great  sheriffs  of  the  West.  Perhaps  he  was,  but 
he  would  have  to  pay  the  price  that  such  a  repu- 
tation exacts.  The  Rutherford  gang  had  sworn 
his  death  and  he  knew  they  would  keep  the  oath. 

The  man  sat  with  one  hand  resting  on  the 

7 


The  Sheriff  s  Son 

slim  body  of  the  sleeping  boy.  His  heart  was 
troubled.  What  was  to  become  of  little  Royal 
without  either  father  or  mother?  After  the 
manner  of  men  who  live  much  alone  in  the  open 
he  spoke  his  thoughts  aloud. 

"Son,  one  of  these  here  days  they  're  sure 
a-goin'  to  get  yore  dad.  Maybe  he'll  ride  out  of 
town  and  after  a  while  the  hawss  will  come  gal- 
loping back  with  an  empty  saddle.  A  man  can 
be  mighty  unpopular  and  die  of  old  age,  but  not 
if  he  keeps  bustin'  up  the  plans  of  rampageous 
two-gun  men,  not  if  he  shoots  them  up  when 
they're  full  of  the  devil  and  bad  whiskey.  It 
ain't  on  the  cyards  for  me  to  beat  them  to  the 
draw  every  time,  let  alone  that  they  '11  see  to  it 
all  the  breaks  are  with  them.  No,  sir.  I  reckon 
one  of  these  days  you're  goin'  to  be  an  orphan, 
little  son." 

He  stooped  over  the  child  and  wrapped  the 
blankets  closer.  The  muscles  of  his  tanned  face 
twitched.  Long  he  held  the  warm,  slender  body 
of  the  boy  as  close  to  him  as  he  dared  for  fear 
of  wakening  him. 

The  man  lay  tense  and  rigid,  his  set  face 
staring  up  into  the  starry  night.  It  was  his 
hour  of  trial.  A  rising  tide  was  sweeping  him 
away.  He  had  to  clutch  at  every  straw  to  hold 

8 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

his  footing.  But  something  in  the  man  —  his 
lifetime  habit  of  facing  the  duty  that  he  saw  — 
held  him  steady. 

"You  got  to  stand  the  gaff,  Jack  Beaudry. 
Can't  run  away  from  your  job,  can  you?  Got 
to  go  through,  have  n't  you?  Well,  then!" 

Peace  came  at  last  to  the  tormented  man.  He 
fell  asleep.  Hours  later  he  opened  his  eyes  upon 
a  world  bathed  in  light.  It  was  such  a  brave 
warm  world  that  the  fears  which  had  gripped 
him  in  the  chill  night  seemed  sinister  dreams. 
In  this  clear,  limpid  atmosphere  only  a  sick 
soul  could  believe  in  a  blind  alley  from  which 
there  was  no  escape. 

But  facts  are  facts.  He  might  hope  for  escape, 
but  even  now  he  could  not  delude  himself  with 
the  thought  that  he  might  win  through  without 
a  fight. 

While  they  ate  breakfast  he  told  the  boy 
about  the  mother  whom  he  had  never  seen. 
John  Beaudry  had  always  intended  to  tell 
Royal  the  story  of  his  love  for  the  slender, 
sweet-lipped  girl  whose  grace  and  beauty  had 
flooded  his  soul.  But  the  reticence  of  shyness 
had  sealed  his  lips.  He  had  cared  for  her  with 
a  reverence  too  deep  for  words. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  well-to-do  people 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

visiting  in  the  West.  The  young  cattleman  and 
she  had  fallen  in  love  almost  at  sight  and  had 
remained  lovers  till  the  day  of  her  death.  After 
one  year  of  happiness  tragedy  had  stalked  their 
lives.  Beaudry,  even  then  the  object  of  the 
rustlers'  rage,  had  been  intercepted  on  the  way 
from  Battle  Butte  to  his  ranch.  His  wife,  riding 
to  meet  him,  heard  shots  and  galloped  forward. 
From  the  mesa  she  looked  down  into  a  draw 
and  saw  her  husband  fighting  for  his  life.  He 
was  at  bay  in  a  bed  of  boulders,  so  well  covered 
by  the  big  rocks  that  the  rustlers  could  not  easily 
get  at  him.  His  enemies,  scattered  fanshape 
across  the  entrance  to  the  arroyo,  were  gradu- 
ally edging  nearer.  In  a  panic  of  fear  she  rode 
wildly  to  the  nearest  ranch,  gasped  out  her  ap- 
peal for  help,  and  collapsed  in  a  woeful  little 
huddle.  His  friends  arrived  in  time  to  save 
Beaudry,  damaged  only  to  the  extent  of  a  flesh 
wound  in  the  shoulder,  but  the  next  week  the 
young  wife  gave  premature  birth  to  her  child 
and  died  four  days  later. 

In  mental  and  physical  equipment  the  baby 
was  heir  to  the  fears  which  had  beset  the  last 
days  of  the  mother.  He  was  a  frail  little  fellow 
and  he  whimpered  at  trifles.  But  the  clutch  of 
the  tiny  pink  fingers  held  John  Beaudry  more 

10 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

firmly  than  a  grip  of  steel.     With  unflagging 
patience  he  fended  bogies  from  the  youngster. 

But  the  day  was  at  hand  when  he  could  do 
this  no  longer.  That  was  why  he  was  telling 
Royal  about  the  mother  he  had  never  known. 
From  his  neck  he  drew  a  light  gold  chain,  at 
the  end  of  which  was  a  small  square  folding 
case.  In  it  was  a  daguerreotype  of  a  golden- 
haired,  smiling  girl  who  looked  out  at  her  son 
with  an  effect  of  shy  eagerness. 

"Give  Roy  pretty  lady,"  demanded  the  boy. 

Beaudry  shook  his  head  slowly.  "I  reckon 
that's  'most  the  only  thing  you  can  ask  your 
dad  for  that  he  won't  give  you."  He  continued 
unsteadily,  looking  at  the  picture  hi  the  palm 
of  his  hand.  "Lady-Bird  I  called  her,  son.  She 
used  to  fill  the  house  with  music  right  out  of 
her  heart.  .  .  .  Fine  as  silk  and  true  as  gold. 
Don't  you  ever  forget  that  your  mother  was  a 
thoroughbred."  His  voice  broke.  "But  I  had  n't 
ought  to  have  let  her  stay  out  here.  She  be- 
longed where  folks  are  good  and  kind,  where 
they  love  books  and  music.  Yet  she  would  n't 
leave  me  because  .  . .  because  . . .  Maybe  you '11 
know  why  she  would  n't  some  day,  little  son." 

He  drew  a  long,  ragged  breath  and  slipped 
the  case  back  under  his  shirt. 

11 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Quickly  Beaudry  rose  and  began  to  bustle 
about  with  suspicious  cheerfulness.  He  whistled 
while  he  packed  and  saddled.  In  the  fresh  cool 
morning  air  they  rode  across  the  valley  and 
climbed  to  the  mesa  beyond.  The  sun  mounted 
higher  and  the  heat  shimmered  on  the  trail  in 
front  of  them.  The  surface  of  the  earth  was 
cracked  in  dry,  sun-baked  tiles  curving  upward 
at  the  edges.  Cat's-claw  clutched  at  the  legs  of 
the  travelers.  Occasionally  a  swift  darted  from 
rock  to  rock.  The  faint,  low  voices  of  the  desert 
were  inaudible  when  the  horse  moved.  The 
riders  came  out  of  the  silence  and  moved  into 
the  silence. 

It  was  noon  when  Beaudry  drew  into  the  sub- 
urbs of  Battle  Butte.  He  took  an  inconspicu- 
ous way  by  alleys  and  side  streets  to  the  corral. 
His  enemies  might  or  might  not  be  in  town.  He 
wanted  to  take  no  chances.  All  he  asked  was 
to  postpone  the  crisis  until  Royal  was  safe 
aboard  a  train.  Crossing  San  Miguel  Street, 
the  riders  came  face  to  face  with  a  man  Beaudry 
knew  to  be  a  spy  of  the  Rutherfords.  He  was 
a  sleek,  sly  little  man  named  Chet  Fox. 

"Evenin',  sheriff.  Looks  some  like  we-all 
might  have  rain,"  Fox  said,  rasping  his  un- 
shaven chin  with  the  palm  of  a  hand. 

12 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Looks  like,"  agreed  Beaudry  with  a  curt 
nod  and  rode  on. 

Fox  disappeared  around  a  corner,  hurried 
forward  for  half  a  block,  and  turned  in  at 
the  Silver  Dollar  Saloon.  A  broad-shouldered, 
hawk-nosed  man  of  thirty  was  talking  to  three 
of  his  friends.  Toward  this  group  Fox  hurried. 
In  a  low  voice  he  spoke  six  words  that  con- 
demned John  Beaudry  to  death. 

"Beaudry  just  now  rode  into  town." 

Hal  Rutherford  forgot  the  story  he  was  tell- 
ing. He  gave  crisp,  short  orders.  The  men 
about  him  left  by  the  back  door  of  the  saloon 
and  scattered. 

Meanwhile  the  sheriff  rode  into  the  Elephant 
Corral  and  unsaddled  his  horse.  He  led  the 
animal  to  the  trough  in  the  yard  and  pumped 
water  for  it.  His  son  trotted  back  beside  him 
to  the  stable  and  played  with  a  puppy  while 
the  roan  was  being  fed. 

Jake  Sharp,  owner  of  the  corral,  stood  in  the 
doorway  and  chatted  with  the  sheriff  for  a 
minute.  Was  it  true  that  a  new  schoolhouse 
was  going  to  be  built  on  Bonito?  And  had  the 
sheriff  heard  whether  McCarty  was  to  be  boss 
of  Big  Creek  roundup? 

Beaudry  answered  his  questions  and  turned 
13 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

away.  Royal  clung  to  one  hand  as  they  walked. 
The  other  held  the  muley  gun. 

It  was  no  sound  that  warned  the  sheriff.  The 
approach  of  his  enemies  had  been  noiseless. 
But  the  sixth  sense  that  comes  to  some  fighting 
men  made  him  look  up  quickly.  Five  riders 
were  moving  down  the  street  toward  the  stable, 
Hal  Rutherford  in  the  lead.  The  alert  glance 
of  the  imperiled  man  swept  the  pasture  back  of 
the  corral.  The  glint  of  the  sun  heliographed 
danger  from  the  rifle  barrels  of  two  men  just 
topping  the  brow  of  the  hill.  Two  more  were 
stealing  up  through  a  draw  to  the  right.  A  bul- 
let whistled  past  the  head  of  the  officer. 

The  father  spoke  quietly  to  his  little  boy. 
"Run,  son,  to  the  stable." 

The  little  chap  began  to  sob.  Bullets  were 
already  kicking  up  the  dust  behind  them.  Roy 
clung  in  terror  to  the  leg  of  his  father. 

Beaudry  caught  up  the  child  and  made  a  dash 
for  the  stable.  He  reached  it,  just  as  Sharp 
and  his  horse-wrangler  were  disappearing  into 
the  loft.  There  was  no  time  to  climb  the  ladder 
with  Royal.  John  flung  open  the  top  of  the 
feed-bin,  dropped  the  boy  inside,  and  slammed 
down  the  lid. 

The  story  of  the  fight  that  followed  is  still 
14 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

an  epic  in  the  Southwest.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion of  fair  play.  The  enemies  of  the  sheriff 
intended  to  murder  him. 

The  men  in  his  rear  were  already  clambering 
over  the  corral  fence.  One  of  them  had  a  scarlet 
handkerchief  around  his  neck.  Beaudry  fired 
from  his  hip  and  the  vivid  kerchief  lurched  for- 
ward into  the  dust.  Almost  at  the  same  moment 
a  sharp  sting  in  the  fleshy  part  of  his  leg  told  the 
officer  that  he  was  wounded. 

From  front  and  rear  the  attackers  surged  into 
the  stable.  The  sheriff  emptied  the  second  bar- 
rel of  buckshot  into  the  huddle  and  retreated 
into  an  empty  horse-stall.  The  smoke  of  many 
guns  filled  the  air  so  that  the  heads  thrust  at 
him  seemed  oddly  detached  from  bodies.  A 
red-hot  flame  burned  its  way  through  his  chest. 
He  knew  he  was  mortally  wounded. 

Hal  Rutherford  plunged  at  him,  screaming  an 
oath.  "We've  got  him,  boys." 

Beaudry  stumbled  back  against  the  manger, 
the  arms  of  his  foe  clinging  to  him  like  ropes  of 
steel.  Twice  he  brought  down  the  butt  of  his 
sa wed-off  gun  on  the  black  head  of  Rutherford. 
The  grip  of  the  big  hillman  grew  lax,  and  as 
the  man  collapsed,  his  fingers  slid  slackly  down 
the  thighs  of  the  officer. 

15 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

John  dropped  the  empty  weapon  and  dragged 
out  a  Colt's  forty-four.  He  fired  low  and  fast, 
not  stopping  to  take  aim.  Another  flame  seared 
its  way  through  his  body.  The  time  left  him 
now  could  be  counted  in  seconds. 

But  it  was  not  in  the  man  to  give  up.  The 
old  rebel  yell  of  Morgan's  raiders  quavered  from 
his  throat.  They  rushed  him.  With  no  room 
even  for  six-gun  work  he  turned  his  revolver 
into  a  club.  His  arm  rose  and  fell  in  the  melee  as 
the  drive  of  the  rustlers  swept  him  to  and  fro. 

So  savage  was  the  defense  of  their  victim 
against  the  hillmen's  onslaught  that  he  beat 
them  off.  A  sudden  panic  seized  them,  and  those 
that  could  still  travel  fled  in  terror. 

They  left  behind  them  four  dead  and  two 
badly  wounded.  One  would  be  a  cripple  to  the 
day  of  his  death.  Of  those  who  escaped  there 
was  not  one  that  did  not  carry  scars  for  months 
as  a  memento  of  the  battle. 

The  sheriff  was  lying  in  the  stall  when  Sharp 
found  him.  From  out  of  the  feed-bin  the  owner 
of  the  corral  brought  his  boy  to  the  father  whose 
life  was  ebbing.  The  child  was  trembling  like 
an  aspen  leaf. 

"Picture,"  gasped  Beaudry,  his  hand  moving 
feebly  toward  the  chain. 

16 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

A  bullet  had  struck  the  edge  of  the  daguerreo- 
type case. 

"She  .  .  .  tried  ...  to  save  me  .  .  .  again," 
murmured  the  dying  man  with  a  faint  smile. 

He  looked  at  the  face  of  his  sweetheart.  It 
smiled  an  eager  invitation  to  him.  A  strange 
radiance  lit  his  eyes. 

Then  his  head  fell  back.  He  had  gone  to  join 
his  Lady-Bird. 


Chapter  I 
Dingwell  Gives  Three  Cheers 

DAVE  DINGWELL  had  been  in  the  saddle 
almost  since  daylight  had  wakened  him 
to  the  magic  sunshine  of  a  world  washed  cool 
and  miraculously  clean  by  the  soft  breath  of  the 
hills.  Steadily  he  had  jogged  across  the  desert 
toward  the  range.  Afternoon  had  brought  him 
to  the  foothills,  where  a  fine  rain  blotted  out  the 
peaks  and  softened  the  sharp  outlines  of  the 
landscape  to  a  gentle  blur  of  green  loveliness. 

The  rider  untied  his  slicker  from  the  rear  of 
the  saddle  and  slipped  into  it.  He  had  lived 
too  long  in  sun-and-wind-parched  New  Mexico 
to  resent  a  shower.  Yet  he  realized  that  it 
might  seriously  affect  the  success  of  what  he 
had  undertaken. 

If  there  had  been  any  one  to  observe  this 
solitary  traveler,  he  would  have  said  that  the 
man  gave  no  heed  to  the  beauty  of  the  day. 
Since  he  had  broken  camp  his  impassive  gaze 
had  been  fixed  for  the  most  part  on  the  ground 
in  front  of  him.  Occasionally  he  swung  his  long 
leg  across  the  rump  of  the  horse  and  dismounted 

18 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

to  stoop  down  for  a  closer  examination  of  the 
hoofprints  he  was  following.  They  were  not 
recent  tracks.  He  happened  to  know  that  they 
were  about  three  days  old.  Plain  as  a  printed 
book  was  the  story  they  told  him. 

The  horses  that  had  made  these  tracks  had 
been  ridden  by  men  in  a  desperate  hurry.  They 
had  walked  little  and  galloped  much.  Not  once 
had  they  fallen  into  the  easy  Spanish  jog-trot 
used  so  much  in  the  casual  travel  of  the  South- 
west. The  spur  of  some  compelling  motive  had 
driven  this  party  at  top  speed. 

Since  Dingwell  knew  the  reason  for  such  haste 
he  rode  warily.  His  alert  caution  suggested  the 
panther.  The  eye  of  the  man  pounced  surely 
upon  every  bit  of  cactus  or  greasewood  behind 
which  a  possible  foe  might  be  hidden.  His  lean, 
sun-tanned  face  was  an  open  letter  of  recom- 
mendation as  to  his  ability  to  take  care  of  him- 
self in  a  world  that  had  often  glared  at  him 
wolfishly.  A  man  in  a  temper  to  pick  a  quarrel 
would  have  looked  twice  at  Dave  Dingwell 
before  choosing  him  as  the  object  of  it  —  and 
then  would  have  passed  on  to  a  less  competent 
citizen. 

The  trail  grew  stiffer.  It  circled  into  a  draw 
down  which  tumbled  a  jocund  little  stream. 

19 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Trout,  it  might  be  safely  guessed,  lurked  here 
in  the  riffles  and  behind  the  big  stones.  An 
ideal  camping-ground  this,  but  the  rider  re- 
jected it  apparently  without  consideration.  He 
passed  into  the  canon  beyond,  and  so  by  a 
long  uphill  climb  came  to  the  higher  reaches 
of  the  hills* 

He  rode  patiently,  without  any  hurry,  with- 
out any  hesitation.  Here  again  a  reader  of 
character  might  have  found  something  signifi- 
cant in  the  steadiness  of  the  man.  Once  on 
the  trail,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  shake  him  off. 

By  the  count  of  years  Dingwell  might  be  in 
the  early  forties.  Many  little  wrinkles  radiated 
fanlike  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  But  what- 
ever his  age  time  had  not  tamed  him.  In  the 
cock  of  those  same  steel-blue  eyes  was  some- 
thing jaunty,  something  almost  debonair,  that 
carried  one  back  to  a  youth  of  care-free  rioting 
in  a  land  of  sunshine.  Not  that  Mr.  Dingwell 
was  given  to  futile  dissipations.  He  had  the 
reputation  of  a  responsible  ranchman.  But  it  5s 
not  to  be  denied  that  little  devils  of  mischief 
at  times  danced  in  those  orbs. 

Into  the  hills  the  trail  wound  across  gulches 
and  along  the  shoulders  of  elephant  humps.  It 
brought  him  into  a  country  of  stunted  pines 

20 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

and  red  sandstone,  and  so  to  the  summit  of  a 
ridge  which  formed  part  of  the  run  of  a  saucer- 
shaped  basin.  He  looked  down  into  an  open 
park  hedged  in  on  the  far  side  by  mountains. 
Scrubby  pines  straggled  up  the  slopes  from 
arroyos  that  cleft  the  hills.  By  divers  unknown 
paths  these  led  into  the  range  beyond. 

A  clump  of  quaking  aspens  was  the  chief  land- 
mark in  the  bed  of  the  park.  Though  this  was 
the  immediate  destination  of  Mr.  Dingwell, 
since  the  hoofprints  he  was  following  plunged 
straight  down  toward  the  grove,  yet  he  took 
certain  precautions  before  venturing  nearer. 
He  made  sure  that  the  45-70  Winchester  that 
lay  across  the  saddle  was  in  working  order.  Also 
he  kept  along  the  rim  of  the  saucer-shaped  park 
till  he  came  to  a  break  where  a  creek  tumbled 
down  in  a  white  foam  through  a  ravine. 

"It's  a  heap  better  to  be  safe  than  to  be 
sorry,"  he  explained  to  himself  cheerfully. 
"They  call  this  Lonesome  Park,  and  maybe  so 
it  deserves  its  name  to-day.  But  you  never  can 
tell,  Dave.  We  '11  make  haste  slowly  if  you  don't 
mind." 

Along  the  bank  of  the  creek  he  descended, 
letting  his  sure-footed  cowpony  pick  its  own 
way  while  he  gave  strict  attention  to  the  scen- 

21 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

ery.  At  a  bend  of  the  stream  he  struck  again 
the  trail  of  the  riders  he  had  been  following  and 
came  from  there  directly  to  the  edge  of  the 
aspen  clump. 

Apparently  his  precautions  were  unnecessary. 
He  was  alone.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  that. 
Only  the  tracks  of  feet  and  the  ashes  of  a  dead 
fire  showed  that  within  a  few  days  a  party  had 
camped  here. 

Dingwell  threw  his  bridle  to  the  ground  and 
with  his  rifle  tucked  under  his  arm  examined  the 
tracks  carefully.  Sometimes  he  was  down  on 
hands  and  knees  peering  at  the  faint  marks  of 
which  he  was  reading  the  story.  Foot  by  foot 
he  quartered  over  the  sand,  entirely  circling 
the  grove  before  he  returned  to  the  ashes  of  the 
dead  fire.  Certain  facts  he  had  discovered.  One 
was  that  the  party  which  had  camped  here  had 
split  up  and  taken  to  the  hills  by  different  trails 
instead  of  as  a  unit.  Still  another  was  that  so 
far  as  he  could  see  there  had  been  no  digging  in 
or  near  the  grove. 

It  was  raining  more  definitely  now,  so  that 
the  distant  peaks  were  hidden  in  a  mist.  In  the 
lee  of  the  aspens  it  was  still  dry.  Dingwell  stood 
there  frowning  at  the  ashes  of  the  dead  camp- 
fire.  He  had  had  a  theory,  and  it  was  not  work- 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

ing  out  quite  as  he  had  hoped.  For  the  moment 
he  was  at  a  mental  impasse.  Part  of  what  had 
happened  he  could  guess  almost  as  well  as  if 
he  had  been  present  to  see  it.  Sweeney's  posse 
had  given  the  fugitives  a  scare  at  Dry  Gap  and 
driven  them  back  into  the  desert.  In  the  early 
morning  they  had  tried  the  hills  again  and  had 
reached  Lonesome  Park.  But  they  could  not 
be  sure  that  Sweeney  or  some  one  of  the  posses 
sent  out  by  the  railroad  was  not  close  at  hand. 
Somewhere  in  the  range  back  of  them  the  pur- 
suers were  combing  the  hills,  and  into  those 
very  hills  the  bandits  had  to  go  to  disappear  in 
their  mountain  haunts. 

Even  before  reaching  the  park  Dingwell  had 
guessed  the  robbers  would  separate  here  and 
strike  each  for  individual  safety.  But  what  had 
they  done  with  the  loot?  That  was  the  thing 
that  puzzled  him. 

They  had  divided  the  gold  here.  Or  one  of 
them  had  taken  it  with  him  to  an  appointed 
rendezvous  in  the  hills.  Or  they  had  cached  it. 
One  of  these  three  plans  had  been  followed. 
But  which? 

Dingwell  rubbed  the  open  fingers  of  one  hand 
slowly  through  his  sunburnt  thatch  of  hair. 
"Doggone  my  hide,  if  it  don't  look  like  they 

23 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

took  it  with  them,"  he  murmured.  "But  that 
ain't  reasonable,  Dave.  The  man  in  charge  of 
this  hold-up  knew  his  business.  It  was  smooth 
work  all  the  way  through.  If  it  had  n't  been  for 
bad  luck  he  would  have  got  away  with  the  whole 
thing  fine.  They  still  had  the  loot  with  them 
when  they  got  here.  No  doubt  about  that.  Well, 
then !  He  would  n't  divvy  up  here,  because,  if 
they  separated,  and  any  one  of  them  got  caught 
with  the  gold  on  him,  it  would  be  a  give-away. 
But  if  they  did  n't  have  the  dough  on  them,  it 
would  not  matter  if  some  of  the  boys  were 
caught.  You  can't  do  anything  with  a  man 
riding  peaceable  through  the  hills  looking  for 
strays,  no  matter  how  loaded  to  the  guards  with 
suspicions  you  may  be.  So  they  would  cache 
the  loot.  Would  n't  they?  Sure  they  would  if 
they  had  any  sense.  But  tell  me  where,  Dave." 

His  thoughtful  eyes  had  for  some  moments 
been  resting  on  something  that  held  them.  He 
stooped  and  picked  up  a  little  chip  of  sealing- 
wax.  Instantly  he  knew  how  it  had  come  here. 
The  gold  sacks  had  been  sealed  by  the  express 
company  with  wax.  At  least  one  of  the  sacks 
had  been  opened  here  by  the  robbers. 

Did  this  mean  they  had  divided  their  treasure 
here?  It  might  mean  that.  Or  it  might  mean 

24 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

that  before  they  cached  it  they  had  opened  one 
sack  to  see  how  much  it  held.  Dingwell  clung 
to  the  opinion  that  the  latter  was  the  truth, 
partly  because  this  marched  with  his  hopes  and 
partly  because  it  seemed  to  him  more  likely. 
There  would  be  a  big  risk  in  taking  their  haul 
with  them  farther.  There  was  none  at  all  in 
caching  it. 

It  was  odd  how  that  little  heap  of  ashes  in 
the  center  of  the  camp-fire  drew  his  eye.  Ashes 
did  not  arrange  themselves  that  way  naturally. 
Some  one  had  raked  these  into  a  pile.  Why? 
And  who? 

He  could  not  answer  those  questions  offhand. 
But  he  had  a  large  bump  of  curiosity  about 
some  things.  Otherwise  he  would  not  have  been 
where  he  was  that  afternoon.  With  his  boot  he 
swept  the  ashes  aside.  The  ground  beneath 
them  was  a  little  higher  than  it  was  in  the  im- 
mediate neighborhood.  Why  should  the  ban- 
dits have  built  their  fire  on  a  small  hillock  when 
there  was  level  ground  adjacent?  There  might 
be  a  reason  underneath  that  little  rise  of  ground 
or  there  might  not.  Mr.  Dingwell  got  out  his 
long  hunting-knife,  fell  on  his  knees,  and  began 
to  dig  at  the  center  of  the  spot  where  the  camp- 
fire  had  been. 

25 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

The  dirt  flew.  With  his  left  hand  he  scooped 
it  from  the  hole  he  was  making.  Presently  the 
point  of  his  knife  struck  metal.  Three  minutes 
later  he  unearthed  a  heavy  gunny  sack.  Inside 
of  it  were  a  lot  of  smaller  sacks  bearing  the  seal 
of  the  Western  Express  Company.  He  had 
found  the  gold  stolen  by  the  Rutherford  gang 
from  the  Pacific  Flyer. 

Dave  was  pleased  with  himself.  It  had  been 
a  good  day's  work.  He  admitted  cheerfully  that 
there  was  not  another  man  in  New  Mexico  who 
could  have  pulled  off  successfully  the  thing  he 
had  just  done.  The  loot  had  been  well  hidden. 
It  had  been  a  stroke  of  genius  to  cache  it  in 
the  spot  where  the  camp-fire  was  afterward 
built.  But  he  had  outguessed  Jess  Tighe  that 
time.  His  luck  had  sure  stood  up  fine.  The 
occasion  called  for  a  demonstration. 

He  took  off  his  broad-rimmed  gray  hat. 
"Three  rousing  cheers,  Mr.  Dingwell,"  he  an- 
nounced ceremoniously.  "Now,  all  together." 

Rising  to  his  toes,  he  waved  his  hat  joyously, 
worked  his  shoulders  like  a  college  cheer  leader, 
and  gave  a  dumb  pantomime  of  yelling.  He  had 
intended  to  finish  off  with  a  short  solo  dance  step, 
for  it  is  not  every  day  that  a  man  finds  twenty 
thousand  dollars  in  gold  bars  buried  in  the  sand. 

26 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

But  he  changed  his  mind.  As  he  let  himself 
slowly  down  to  his  heels  there  was  a  sardonic 
grin  on  his  brown  face.  In  outguessing  Tighe 
he  had  slipped  one  little  mental  cog,  after  all, 
and  the  chances  were  that  he  would  pay  high 
for  his  error.  A  man  had  been  lying  in  the 
mesquite  close  to  the  creek  watching  him  all 
the  time.  He  knew  it  because  he  had  caught 
the  flash  of  light  on  the  rifle  barrel  that  covered 
him. 

The  gold-digger  beckoned  with  his  hat  as  he 
called  out.  "Come  right  along  to  the  party. 
You're  welcome  as  a  frost  in  June." 

A  head  raised  itself  cautiously  out  of  the 
brush.  "Don't  you  move,  or  I'll  plug  lead  into 
you." 

"  I  'm  hog-tied,"  answered  Dingwell  promptly. 

His  mind  worked  swiftly.  The  man  with  the 
drop  on  him  was  Chet  Fox,  a  hanger-on  of  the 
Rutherford  gang,  just  as  he  had  been  seventeen 
years  before  when  he  betrayed  John  Beaudry 
to  death.  Fox  was  shrewd  and  wily,  but  no 
gunman.  If  Chet  was  alone,  his  prisoner  did 
not  propose  to  remain  one.  Dave  did  not  intend 
to  make  any  fool  breaks,  but  it  would  be  hard 
luck  if  he  could  not  contrive  a  chance  to  turn 
the  tables. 

27 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Reach  for  the  roof." 

Dingwell  obeyed  orders. 

Fox  came  forward  very  cautiously.  Not  for 
an  instant  did  his  beady  eyes  lift  from  the  man 
he  covered. 

"Turn  your  back  to  me." 

The  other  man  did  as  he  was  told. 

Gingerly  Fox  transferred  the  rifle  to  his  left 
hand,  then  drew  a  revolver.  He  placed  the  rifle 
against  the  fork  of  a  young  aspen  and  the  barrel 
of  the  six-gun  against  the  small  of  DingwelPs 
back. 

"Make  just  one  break  and  you're  a  goner," 
he  threatened. 

With  deft  fingers  he  slid  the  revolver  of  the 
cattleman  from  its  holster.  Then,  having  col- 
lected DingwelPs  rifle,  he  fell  back  a  few  steps. 

"Now  you  can  go  on  with  those  health  exer- 
cises I  interrupted  if  you've  a  mind  to,"  Fox 
suggested  with  a  sneer. 

His  prisoner  turned  dejected  eyes  upon  him. 
"That's  right.  Rub  it  in,  Chet.  Don't  you 
reckon  I  know  what  a  long-eared  jackass  I 
am?" 

"There's  two  of  us  know  it  then,"  said  Fox 
dryly.  "  Now,  lift  that  gunnysack  to  your  saddle 
and  tie  it  on  behind." 

28 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

This  done,  Fox  pulled  himself  to  the  saddle, 
still  with  a  wary  eye  on  his  captive. 

"Hit  the  trail  along  the  creek,"  he  ordered. 

Dingwell  moved  forward  reluctantly.  It  was 
easy  to  read  chagrin  and  depression  in  the  sag 
of  his  shoulders  and  the  drag  of  his  feet. 

The  pig  eyes  of  the  fat  little  man  on  horse- 
back shone  with  triumph.  He  was  enjoying 
himself  hugely.  It  was  worth  something  to  have 
tamed  so  debonair  a  dare-devil  as  Dingwell 
had  the  reputation  of  being.  He  had  the  fellow 
so  meek  that  he  would  eat  out  of  his  hand. 


Chapter  II 
Dave  Caches  a  Gunnysack 

FOX  rode  about  ten  yards  behind  his  pris- 
oner, who  plodded  without  spirit  up  the 
creek  trail  that  led  from  the  basin. 

"You're  certainly  an  accommodating  fellow, 
Dave,"  he  jeered.  "I've  seen  them  as  would 
have  grumbled  a  heap  at  digging  up  that  sack, 
and  then  loaning  me  their  horse  to  carry  it 
whilst  they  walked.  But  you're  that  cheerful. 
My  own  brother  would  n't  have  been  so  kind." 

Dingwell  grunted  sulkily.  He  may  have  felt 
cheerful,  but  he  did  not  look  it.  The  pudgy 
round  body  of  Fox  shook  with  silent  laughter. 

"Kind  is  the  word,  Dave.  Honest,  I  hate  to 
put  myself  under  obligations  to  you  like  this. 
If  I  had  n't  seen  with  my  own  eyes  how  you 
was  feeling  the  need  of  them  health  exercises,  I 
could  n't  let  you  force  your  bronc  on  me.  But 
this  little  walk  will  do  you  a  lot  of  good.  It 
ain't  far.  My  horse  is  up  there  in  the  pines." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me?" 
growled  the  defeated  man  over  his  shoulder. 

"Do  with  you?"  The  voice  of  Fox  registered 
30 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

amiable  surprise.  "Why,  I  am  going  to  ask  you 
to  go  up  to  the  horse  ranch  with  me  so  that  the 
boys  can  thank  you  proper  for  digging  up  the 
gold." 

Directly  in  front  of  them  a  spur  of  the  range 
jutted  out  to  meet  the  brown  foothills.  Back 
of  this,  forty  miles  as  the  crow  flies,  nestled  a 
mountain  park  surrounded  by  peaks.  In  it  was 
the  Rutherford  horse  ranch.  Few  men  traveled 
to  it,  and  these  by  little-used  trails.  Of  those 
who  frequented  them,  some  were  night  riders. 
They  carried  a  price  on  their  heads,  fugitives 
from  localities  where  the  arm  of  the  law  reached 
more  surely. 

Through  the  dry  brittle  grass  the  man  on 
horseback  followed  Ding  well  to  the  scant  pines 
where  his  cowpony  was  tethered.  Fox  dis- 
mounted and  stood  over  his  captive  while  the 
latter  transferred  the  gunnysack  and  its  con- 
tents to  the  other  saddle.  Never  for  an  instant 
did  the  little  spy  let  the  other  man  close  enough 
to  pounce  upon  him.  Even  though  Dingwell 
was  cowed,  Chet  proposed  to  play  it  safe.  Not 
till  he  was  in  the  saddle  himself  did  he  let  his 
prisoner  mount. 

Instantly  Dave's  cowpony  went  into  the  air. 

"Whoa,  you  Teddy!  What's  the  matter  with 
31 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

you?"  cried  the  owner  of  the  horse  angrily. 
"Quit  your  two-stepping,  can't  you?" 

The  animal  had  been  gentle  enough  all  day, 
but  now  a  devil  of  unrest  seemed  to  have  en- 
tered it.  The  sound  of  trampling  hoofs  thudded 
on  the  hard,  sun-baked  earth  as  the  bronco 
came  down  like  a  pile-driver,  camel-backed, 
with  legs  stiff  and  unjointed.  Skyward  it  flung 
itself  again,  whirled  in  the  air,  and  jarred  down 
at  an  angle.  Wildly  flapped  the  arms  of  the 
cattleman.  The  quirt,  wrong  end  to,  danced  up 
and  down  clutched  in  his  flying  fist.  Each  mo- 
ment it  looked  as  if  Mr.  Dingwell  would  take 
the  dust. 

The  fat  stomach  of  Fox  shook  with  mirth. 
"Go  it,  you  buckaroo,"  he  shouted.  "You  got 
him  pulling  leather.  Sunfish,  you  pie-faced 
cayuse." 

The  horse  in  its  lunges  pounded  closer.  Fox 
backed  away,  momentarily  alarmed.  "Here 

—  you,  hold  your  brute  off.  It'll  be  on  top  of 
me  in  a  minute,"  he  screamed. 

Apparently  Dingwell  had  lost  all  control  of 
the  bucker.  Somehow  he  still  stuck  to  the 
saddle,  by  luck  rather  than  skill  it  appeared. 
His  arms,  working  like  windmills,  went  up  as 
Teddy  shot  into  the  air  again.  The  hump- 

32 


The  quirt,  wrong  end  to,  danced  up  and  down  clutched  in  his  flying  fist 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

backed  weaver  came  down  close  to  the  other 
horse.  At  the  same  instant  DingwelPs  loose  arm 
grew  rigid  and  the  loaded  end  of  the  quirt 
dropped  on  the  head  of  Fox. 

The  body  of  Fox  relaxed  and  the  rifle  slid 
from  his  nerveless  fingers.  Teddy  stopped  buck- 
ing as  if  a  spring  had  been  touched.  Dingwell 
was  on  his  own  feet  before  the  other  knew  what 
had  happened.  His  long  arm  plucked  the  little 
man  from  the  saddle  as  if  he  had  been  a  child. 

Still  jarred  by  the  blow,  Fox  looked  up  with 
a  ludicrous  expression  on  his  fat  face.  His  mind 
was  not  yet  adjusted  to  what  had  taken  place. 

"I  told  you  to  keep  the  brute  away,"  he  com- 
plained querulously.  "Now,  see  what  you've 
done." 

Dave  grinned.  "Looks  like  I  spilled  your 
apple  cart.  No,  don't  bother  about  that  gun. 
I'll  take  care  of  it  for  you.  Much  obliged." 

Chet's  face  registered  complex  emotion.  In- 
credulity struggled  with  resentment.  :'You 
made  that  horse  buck  on  purpose,"  he  charged. 

"You're  certainly  a  wiz,  Chet,"  drawled  the 
cattleman. 

"And  that  business  of  being  sore  at  yourself 
and  ashamed  was  all  a  bluff.  You  were  laying 
back  to  trick  me,"  went  on  Fox  venomously. 

33 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"How  did  you  guess  it?  Well,  don't  you  care. 
We  're  born  to  trouble  as  the  sparks  fly  upward. 
As  for  man,  his  days  are  as  grass.  He  diggeth 
a  pit  and  falleth  into  it  his  own  self.  Likewise 
he  digs  a  hole  and  buries  gold,  but  behold, 
another  guy  finds  it.  See,  Second  Ananias, 
fourteen,  twelve." 

"That's  how  you  show  your  gratitude,  is  it? 
I  might  'a'  shot  you  safe  and  comfortable  from 
the  mesquite  and  saved  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"I  don't  wonder  you're  disgusted,  Chet.  But 
be  an  optimist.  I  might  'a'  busted  you  high  and 
wide  with  that  quirt  instead  of  giving  you  a 
nice  little  easy  tap  that  just  did  the  business. 
There's  no  manner  of  use  being  regretful  over 
past  mistakes,"  Dave  told  him  cheerfully. 

"It's  easy  enough  for  you  to  say  that," 
groaned  Fox,  his  hand  to  an  aching  head.  "But 
I  did  n't  lambaste  you  one  on  the  nut.  Anyhow, 
you've  won  out." 

"I  had  won  out  all  the  time,  only  I  had  n't 
pulled  it  off  yet,"  Dingwell  explained  with  a 
grin.  "You  did  n't  think  I  was  going  up  to  the 
horse  ranch  with  you  meek  and  humble,  did 
you?  But  we  can  talk  while  we  ride.  I  got  to 
hustle  back  to  Battle  Butte  and  turn  in  this 
sack  to  the  sheriff  so  as  I  can  claim  the  reward. 

34 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Hate  to  trouble  you,  Chet,  but  I'll  have  to  ask 
you  to  transfer  that  gunnysack  back  to  Teddy. 
He 's  through  bucking  for  to-day,  I  should  n't 
wonder." 

Sourly  Fox  did  as  he  was  told.  Then,  still 
under  orders,  he  mounted  his  own  horse  and 
rode  back  with  his  former  prisoner  to  the  park. 
Dingwell  gathered  up  the  rifle  and  revolver 
that  had  been  left  at  the  edge  of  the  aspen 
grove  and  headed  the  horses  for  Battle  Butte. 

"We'll  move  lively,  Chet,"  he  said.  "It  will 
be  night  first  thing  we  know." 

Chet  Fox  was  no  fool.  He  could  see  how 
carefully  Dingwell  had  built  up  the  situation 
for  his  coup,  and  he  began  at  once  laying  the 
groundwork  for  his  own  escape.  There  was  in 
his  mind  no  intention  of  trying  to  recover  the 
gold  himself,  but  if  he  could  get  away  in  time  to 
let  the  Rutherfords  know  the  situation,  he  knew 
that  Dave  would  have  an  uneasy  life  of  it. 

"'Course  I  was  joking  about  shooting  you 
up  from  the  mesquite,  Dave,"  he  explained  as 
the  horses  climbed  the  trail  from  the  park.  "I 
ain't  got  a  thing  against  you  —  nothing  a-tall. 
Besides,  I  'm  a  law-abiding  citizen.  I  don't  hold 
with  this  here  gunman  business.  I  never  was  a 
killer,  and  I  don't  aim  to  begin  now." 

35 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Sure,  I  know  how  tender-hearted  you  are, 
Chet.  I'm  that  way,  too.  I'm  awfuj  sorry  for 
myself  when  I  get  in  trouble.  That's  why  I 
tapped  you  on  the  cocoanut  with  the  end  of  my 
quirt.  That's  why  I'd  let  you  have  \about  three 
bullets  from  old  Tried  and  True  here  right  in 
the  back  if  you  tried  to  make  your  getaway. 
But,  as  you  say,  I  have  n't  a  thing  against  you. 
I'll  promise  you  one  of  the  nicest  funerals 
Washington  County  ever  had." 

The  little  man  laughed  feebly.  "You  will 
have  your  joke,  Dave,  but  I  know  mighty  well 
you  would  n't  shoot  me.  You  got  no  legal  right 
to  detain  me." 

"I'd  have  to  wrastle  that  out  with  the  cor- 
oner afterward,  I  expect,"  replied  Dingwell 
casually.  "Not  thinking  of  leaving  me,  are 
you?" 

"Oh,  no!  No.  Not  at  all.  I  was  just  kinder 
talking." 

It  was  seven  miles  from  Lonesome  Park  to 
Battle  Butte.  Fox  kept  up  a  kind  of  ingratiating 
whine  whenever  the  road  was  so  rough  that  the 
horses  had  to  fall  into  a  walk.  He  was  not  sure 
whether  when  it  came  to  the  pinch  he  could 
summon  nerve  to  try  a  bolt,  but  he  laid  himself 
out  to  establish  friendly  relations.  Dingwell, 

36 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

reading  him  like  a  primer,  cocked  a  merry  eye 
at  the  man  and  grinned. 

About  a  mile  from  Battle  Butte  they  caught 
up  with  another  rider,  a  young  woman  of  per- 
haps twenty.  The  dark,  handsome  face  that 
turned  to  see  who  was  coming  would  have  been 
a  very  attractive  one  except  for  its  look  of 
sulky  rebellion.  From  the  mop  of  black  hair 
tendrils  had  escaped  and  brushed  the  wet  cheeks 
flushed  by  the  sting  of  the  ram.  The  girl  rode 
splendidly.  Even  the  slicker  that  she  wore 
could  not  disguise  the  flat  back  and  the  erect 
carriage  of  the  slender  body. 

Dingwell  lifted  his  hat.  "  Good-evenin',  Miss 
Rutherford." 

She  nodded  curtly.  Her  intelligent  eyes  passed 
from  his  to  those  of  Fox.  A  question  and  an 
answer,  neither  of  them  in  words,  flashed  forth 
and  back  between  Beulah  Rutherford  and  the 
little  man. 

Dave  took  a  hand  in  the  line-up  as  they  fell 
into  place  beside  each  other.  "Hold  on,  Fox. 
You  keep  to  the  left  of  the  road.  I'll  ride  next 
you  with  Miss  Rutherford  on  my  right."  He 
explained  to  the  girl  with  genial  mockery  his 
reason.  "Chet  and  I  are  such  tillicums  we  hate 
to  let  any  one  get  between  us." 

37 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Bluntly  the  girl  spoke  out.  "What's  the 
matter?" 

The  cattleman  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  amused 
surprise.  "Why,  nothing  at  all,  I  reckon. 
There's  nothing  the  matter,  is  there,  Chet?" 

"I've  got  an  engagement  to  meet  your  father 
and  he  won't  let  me  go,"  blurted  out  Fox. 

"When  did  you  make  that  hurry-up  appoint- 
ment, Chet?  "  laughed  Dingwell.  "You  did  n't 
seem  in  no  manner  of  hurry  when  you  was  lying 
in  the  mesquite  back  there  at  Lonesome  Park." 

"You've  got  no  business  to  keep  him  here. 
He  can  go  if  he  wants  to,"  flashed  the  young 
woman. 

"You  hear  that,  Chet.  You  can  go  if  you 
want  to,"  murmured  Dave  with  good-natured 
irony. 

"Said  he'd  shoot  me  in  the  back  if  I  hit  the 
trail  any  faster,"  Fox  snorted  to  the  girl. 

"He  would  n't  dare,"  flamed  Beulah  Ruther- 
ford. 

Her  sultry  eyes  attacked  Dingwell. 

He  smiled,  not  a  whit  disturbed.  "You  see 
how  it  is,  Chet.  Maybe  I  will;  maybe  I  won't. 
Be  a  sport  and  you'll  find  out." 

For  a  minute  the  three  rode  in  silence  except 
for  the  sound  of  the  horses  moving.  Beulah 

38 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

did  not  fully  understand  the  situation,  but  it 
was  clear  to  her  that  somehow  Dingwell  was 
interfering  with  a  plan  of  her  people.  Her  un- 
tamed youth  resented  the  high-handed  way  in 
which  he  seemed  to  be  doing  it.  What  right 
had  he  to  hold  Chet  Fox  a  prisoner  at  the  point 
of  a  rifle? 

She  asked  a  question  flatly.  "  Have  you  got  a 
warrant  for  Chet's  arrest?" 

"Only  old  Tried  and  True  here."  Dave  pat- 
ted the  barrel  of  his  weapon. 

"You're  not  a  deputy  sheriff?" 

"No-o.   Not  officially." 

"What  has  Chet  done?" 

Dingwell  regarded  the  other  man  humorously. 
"What  have  you  done,  Chet?  You  must  'a' 
broke  some  ordinance  in  that  long  career  of 
disrespectability  of  yours.  I  reckon  we'll  put 
it  that  you  obstructed  traffic  at  Lonesome 
Park." 

Miss  Rutherford  said  no  more.  The  rain  had 
given  way  to  a  gentle  mist.  Presently  she  took 
off  her  slicker  and  held  it  on  the  left  side  of  the 
saddle  to  fold.  The  cattleman  leaned  toward 
her  to  lend  a  hand. 

"Lemme  roll  it  up,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  can." 

39 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

With  the  same  motion  the  girl  had  learned  in 
roping  cattle  she  flung  the  slicker  over  his  head. 
Her  weight  on  the  left  stirrup,  she  threw  her 
arms  about  him  and  drew  the  oil  coat  tight. 

"Run,  Chet!"  she  cried. 

Fox  was  off  like  a  flash. 

Hampered  by  his  rifle,  Dave  could  use  only 
one  hand  to  free  himself.  The  Rutherford  girl 
clung  as  if  her  arms  had  been  ropes  of  steel. 
Before  he  had  shaken  her  off,  the  runaway  was 
a  hundred  yards  down  the  road  galloping  for 
dear  life. 

Dave  raised  his  gun.  Beulah  struck  the  barrel 
down  with  her  quirt.  He  lowered  the  rifle, 
turned  to  her,  and  smiled.  His  grin  was  rueful 
but  friendly. 

"You're  a  right  enterprising  young  lady  for 
a  schoolmarm,  but  I  would  n't  have  shot  Chet, 
anyhow.  The  circumstances  don't  warrant  it." 

She  swung  from  the  saddle  and  picked  her 
coat  out  of  the  mud  where  it  had  fallen.  Her 
lithe  young  figure  was  supple  as  that  of  a  boy. 

" You've  spoiled  my  coat,"  she  charged  re- 
sentfully. 

The  injustice  of  this  tickled  him.  "I'll  buy 
you  a  new  one  when  we  get  to  town,"  he  told 
her  promptly. 

40 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Her  angry  dignity  gave  her  another  inch  of 
height.  "I'll  attend  to  that,  Mr.  Dingwell. 
Suppose  you  ride  on  and  leave  me  alone.  I  won't 
detain  you." 

"Meaning  that  she  doesn't  like  your  com- 
pany, Dave,"  he  mused  aloud,  eyes  twinkling. 
"She  seemed  kinder  fond  of  you,  too,  a  minute 
ago." 

Almost  she  stamped  her  foot.  "Will  you  go? 
Or  shall  I?" 

"Oh,  I'm  going,  Miss  Rutherford.  If  I 
was  n't  such  an  aged,  decrepit  wreck  I  'd  come 
up  and  be  one  of  your  scholars.  Anyhow,  I'm 
real  glad  to  have  met  you.  No,  I  can't  stay 
longer.  So  sorry.  Good-bye." 

He  cantered  down  the  road  in  the  same  direc- 
tion Fox  had  taken.  It  happened  that  he,  too, 
wanted  to  be  alone,  for  he  had  a  problem  to 
solve  that  would  not  wait.  Fox  had  galloped  in 
to  warn  the  Rutherford  gang  that  he  had  the 
gold.  How  long  it  would  take  him  to  round  up 
two  or  three  of  them  would  depend  on  chance. 
Dave  knew  that  they  might  be  waiting  for  him 
before  he  reached  town.  He  had  to  get  rid  of 
the  treasure  between  that  spot  and  town,  or 
else  he  had  to  turn  on  his  tired  horse  and  try  to 
escape  to  the  hills.  Into  his  mind  popped  a  pos- 

41 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

sible  solution  of  the  difficulty.  It  would  depend 
on  whether  luck  was  for  or  against  him.  To  dis- 
mount and  hide  the  sack  was  impossible,  both 
because  Beulah  Rutherford  was  on  his  heels 
and  because  the  muddy  road  would  show  tracks 
where  he  had  stopped.  His  plan  was  to  hide  it 
without  leaving  the  saddle. 

He  did.  At  the  outskirts  of  Battle  Butte  he 
crossed  the  bridge  over  Big  Creek  and  deflected 
to  the  left.  He  swung  up  one  street  and  down 
another  beside  which  ran  a  small  field  of  alfalfa 
on  one  side.  A  hundred  yards  beyond  it  he 
met  another  rider,  a  man  called  Slim  Sanders, 
who  worked  for  Buck  Rutherford  as  a  cow- 
puncher. 

The  two  men  exchanged  nods  without  stop- 
ping. Apparently  the  news  that  Fox  had  brought 
was  unknown  to  the  cowboy.  But  Dingwell 
knew  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Legal  Tender 
Saloon,  which  was  the  hang-out  of  the  Ruther- 
ford followers.  In  a  few  minutes  Sanders  would 
get  his  orders. 

Dave  rode  to  the  house  of  Sheriff  Sweeney. 
He  learned  there  that  the  sheriff  was  downtown. 
Dingwell  turned  toward  the  business  section  of 
the  town  and  rode  down  the  main  street.  From 
a  passer-by  he  learned  that  Sweeney  had  gone 

42 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

into  the  Legal  Tender  a  few  minutes  before. 
In  front  of  that  saloon  he  dismounted. 

Fifty  yards  down  the  street  three  men  were 
walking  toward  him.  He  recognized  them  as 
Buck  Rutherford,  Sanders,  and  Chet  Fox.  The 
little  man  walked  between  the  other  two  and 
told  his  story  excitedly.  Dingwell  did  not  wait 
for  them.  He  had  something  he  wanted  to  tell 
Sweeney  and  he  passed  at  once  into  the  saloon. 


Chapter  III 
The  Old-Timer  Sits  into  a  Big  Game 

THE  room  into  which  Dingwell  had  stepped 
was  as  large  as  a  public  dance-hall.  Scat- 
tered in  one  part  or  another  of  it,  singly  or  in 
groups,  were  fifty  or  sixty  men.  In  front,  to  the 
right,  was  the  bar,  where  some  cowmen  and 
prospectors  were  lined  up  before  a  counter  upon 
which  were  bottles  and  glasses.  A  bartender  in 
a  white  linen  jacket  was  polishing  the  walnut 
top  with  a  cloth. 

Dave  shook  his  head  in  answer  to  the  invita- 
tion to  drink  that  came  to  him  at  once.  Casu- 
ally he  chatted  with  acquaintances  as  he  worked 
his  way  toward  the  rear.  This  part  of  the  room 
was  a  gambling  resort.  Among  the  various 
methods  of  separating  the  prodigal  from  his 
money  were  roulette,  faro,  keno,  chuckaluck, 
and  poker  tables.  Around  these  a  motley  assem- 
blage was  gathered.  Rich  cattlemen  brushed 
shoulders  with  the  outlaws  who  were  rustling 
their  calves.  Mexicans  without  a  nickel  stood 
side  by  side  with  Eastern  consumptives  out  for 
their  health.  Chinese  laundrymen  played  the 

44 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

wheel  beside  miners  and  cowpunchers.  Stolid, 
wooden-faced  Indians  in  blankets  from  the 
reservation  watched  the  turbid  life  of  the  South- 
west as  it  eddied  around  them.  The  new  West 
was  jostling  the  old  West  into  the  background, 
but  here  the  vivid  life  of  the  frontier  was  mak- 
ing its  last  stand. 

By  the  time  that  Dave  had  made  a  tour  of 
two  thirds  of  the  room  he  knew  that  Sheriff 
Sweeney  was  not  among  those  present.  His  in- 
quiries brought  out  the  fact  that  he  must  have 
just  left.  Dingwell  sauntered  toward  the  door, 
intending  to  follow  him,  but  what  he  saw  there 
changed  his  mind.  Buck  Rutherford  and  Slim 
Sanders  were  lounging  together  at  one  end  of 
the  bar.  It  took  no  detective  to  understand 
that  they  were  watching  the  door.  A  glance 
to  the  rear  showed  Dave  two  more  Rutherfords 
at  the  back  exit.  That  he  would  have  company 
in  case  he  left  was  a  safe  guess. 

The  cattleman  chuckled.  The  little  devils  of 
mischief  already  mentioned  danced  in  his  eyes. 
If  they  were  waiting  for  him  to  go,  he  would 
see  that  they  had  a  long  session  of  it.  Dave  was 
in  no  hurry.  The  night  was  young  yet,  and  in 
any  case  the  Legal  Tender  never  closed.  The 
key  had  been  thrown  away  ten  years  before. 

45 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

He  could  sit  it  out  as  long  as  the  Rutherfords 
could. 

Dingwell  was  confident  no  move  would  be 
made  against  him  in  public.  The  sentiment  of 
the  community  had  developed  since  that  dis- 
tant day  when  the  Rutherford  gang  had  shot 
down  Jack  Beaudry  in  open  daylight.  Deviltry 
had  to  be  done  under  cover  now.  Moreover, 
Dave  was  in  the  peculiar  situation  of  advantage 
that  the  outlaws  could  not  kill  him  until  they 
knew  where  he  had  hidden  the  gold.  So  far  as 
the  Rutherfords  went,  he  was  just  now  the  goose 
that  laid  the  golden  egg. 

He  stood  chatting  with  another  cattleman 
for  a  few  moments,  then  drifted  back  to  the 
rear  of  the  hall  again.  Underneath  an  elk's  head 
with  magnificent  antlers  a  party  sat  around  a 
table  playing  draw  poker  with  a  skinned  deck. 
Two  of  them  were  wall-eyed  strangers  whom 
Dingwell  guessed  to  be  professional  tinhorns. 
Another  ran  a  curio  store  in  town.  The  fourth 
was  Dan  Meldrum,  one  of  the  toughest  crooks 
in  the  county.  Nineteen  years  ago  Sheriff 
Beaudry  had  sent  him  to  the  penitentiary  for 
rustling  calves.  The  fifth  player  sat  next  to  the 
wall.  He  was  a  large,  broad-shouldered  man 
close  to  fifty.  His  face  had  the  weather-beaten 

46 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

look  of  confidence  that  comes  to  an  outdoor 
Westerner  used  to  leading  others. 

While  Dave  was  moving  past  this  table,  he 
noticed  that  Chet  Fox  was  whispering  in  the 
ear  of  the  man  next  the  wall.  The  poker-player 
nodded,  and  at  the  same  moment  his  glance 
met  that  of  Dingwell.  The  gray  eyes  of  the  big 
fellow  narrowed  and  grew  chill.  Fox,  starting 
to  move  away,  recognized  the  cattleman  from 
whom  he  had  escaped  half  an  hour  before. 
Taken  by  surprise,  the  little  spy  looked  guilty 
as  an  urchin  caught  stealing  apples. 

It  took  no  clairvoyant  to  divine  what  the 
subject  of  that  whispered  colloquy  had  been. 
The  cheerful  grin  of  Dave  included  impartially 
Fox,  Meldrum,  and  the  player  beneath  the  elk's 
head. 

The  ex-convict  spoke  first.  "Come  back  to 
sit  in  our  game,  Dave?"  he  jeered. 

Dingwell  understood  that  this  was  a  chal- 
lenge. It  was  impossible  to  look  on  the  ugly, 
lupine  face  of  the  man,  marked  by  the  ravages 
of  forty  years  of  vice  and  unbridled  passion, 
without  knowing  that  he  was  ready  for  trouble 
now.  But  Meldrum  was  a  mere  detail  of  a  sit- 
uation piquant  enough  even  for  so  light-hearted 
a  son  of  the  Rockies  as  this  cattleman.  Dave 

47 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

had  already  invited  himself  into  a  far  bigger 
game  of  the  Rutherford  clan  than  this.  More- 
over, just  now  he  was  so  far  ahead  that  he  had 
cleared  the  table  of  all  the  stakes.  Meldrum 
knew  this.  So  did  Hal  Rutherford,  the  big  man 
sitting  next  the  wall.  What  would  be  their  next 
move?  Perhaps  if  he  joined  them  he  would  find 
out.  This  course  held  its  dangers,  but  long  ex- 
perience had  taught  him  that  to  walk  through 
besetting  perils  was  less  risk  than  to  run  from 
them. 

"If  that's  an  invitation,  Dan,  you're  on,"  he 
answered  gayly.  "Just  a  minute,  and  I'll  join 
you.  I  want  to  send  a  message  to  Sweeney." 

Without  even  looking  at  Meldrum  to  see  the 
effect  of  this,  Dave  beckoned  a  Mexican  stand- 
ing near.  "Tell  the  sheriff  I  want  to  see  him 
here  pronto.  You  win  a  dollar  if  he  is  back 
within  an  hour." 

The  Mexican  disappeared.  Fox  followed  him. 

The  cattleman  drew  in  his  chair  and  was 
introduced  to  the  two  strangers.  The  quick, 
searching  look  he  gave  each  confirmed  his  first 
impression.  These  men  were  professional  gam- 
blers. It  occurred  to  him  that  they  had  made 
a  singularly  poor  choice  of  victims  in  Dan 
Meldrum  and  Hal  Rutherford.  Either  of  them 

48 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

would  reach  for  his  gun  at  the  first  evidence  of 
crooked  play. 

No  man  in  Battle  Butte  was  a  better  poker 
psychologist  than  Dingwell,  but  to-night  cards 
did  not  interest  him.  He  was  playing  a  bigger 
game.  His  subconscious  mind  was  alert  for 
developments.  Since  only  his  surface  attention 
was  given  to  poker  he  played  close. 

While  Rutherford  dealt  the  cards  he  talked 
at  Dave.  "So  you're  expecting  Sweeney,  are 
you?  Been  having  trouble  with  any  one?" 

"Or  expect  to  have  any?"  interjected  Mel- 
drum,  insolence  in  his  shifty  pig  eyes. 

"No,  not  looking  for  any,"  answered  Ding- 
well  amiably.  "Fact  is,  I.  was  prospecting 
around  Lonesome  Park  and  found  a  gold  mine. 
Looks  good,  so  I  thought  I  'd  tell  Sweeney  about 
it.  ...  Up  to  me?  I've  got  openers."  He  pushed 
chips  to  the  center  of  the  table. 

Rutherford  also  pushed  chips  forward.  "I'll 
trail  along.  .  .  .  You  got  an  idea  of  taking  in 
Sweeney  as  a  partner?  I'm  looking  for  a  good 
investment.  It  would  pay  you  to  take  me  in 
rather  than  Sweeney." 

Three  of  those  at  the  table  accepted  this  talk 
at  its  face  value.  They  did  not  sense  the  ten- 
sion underneath  the  apparently  casual  give- 

49 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

and-take.  Two  of  them  stayed  and  called  for 
cards.  But  Dave  understood  that  he  had  been 
offered  a  compromise.  Rutherford  had  pro- 
posed to  divide  the  gold  stolen  from  the  express 
car,  and  the  proffer  carried  with  it  a  threat  in 
case  of  refusal. 

"Two  when  you  get  to  me.  .  .  .  No,  I  reckon 
I  '11  stick  to  the  sheriff.  I  've  kinda  arranged  the 
deal." 

As  Rutherford  slid  two  cards  across  to  him 
the  eyes  of  the  men  met.  "Call  it  off.  Sweeney 
is  not  the  kind  of  a  partner  to  stay  with  you  to 
the  finish  if  your  luck  turns  bad.  When  I  give 
my  word  I  go  through." 

Dingwell  looked  at  his  cards.  "Check  to  the 
pat  hand.  .  .  .  Point  is,  Hal,  that  I  don't  expect 
my  luck  to  turn  bad." 

"Hmp!  Go  in  with  Sweeney  and  you'll  have 
bad  luck  all  right.  I'll  promise  you  that.  Better 
talk  this  over  with  me  and  put  a  deal  through." 
He  rapped  on  the  table  to  show  that  he  too 
passed  without  betting. 

The  curio  dealer  checked  and  entered  a  mild 
protest.  "Is  this  a  poker  game  or  a  conversa- 
zione, gentlemen?  It's  stuck  with  Meldrum. 
I  reckon  he 's  off  in  Lonesome  Park  gold-mining 
the  way  he's  been  listening." 

50 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Meldrum  brought  his  attention  back  to  the 
game  and  bet  his  pat  hand.  Dave  called.  After 
a  moment's  hesitation  Rutherford  threw  down 
his  cards. 

"There's  such  a  thing  as  pushing  your  luck 
too  far,"  he  commented.  "Now,  take  old  man 
Crawford.  He  was  mightily  tickled  when  his 
brother  Jim  left  him  the  Frying  Pan  Ranch.  But 
that  was  n't  good  enough  as  it  stood.  He  had 
to  try  to  better  it  by  marrying  the  Swede  hash- 
slinger  from  Los  Angeles.  Later  she  fed  him 
arsenic  in  his  coffee.  A  man 's  a  fool  to  overplay 
his  luck." 

At  the  showdown  Meldrum  disclosed  a  four- 
card  flush  and  the  cattleman  three  jacks. 

As  Dave  raked  in  the  pot  he  answered  Ruther- 
ford casually.  "Still,  he  had  n't  ought  to  under- 
play it  either.  The  other  fellow  may  be  out  on  a 
limb." 

"Say,  is  it  any  of  your  business  how  I  play 
my  cards?"  demanded  Meldrum,  thrusting  his 
chin  toward  Dingwell. 

"Absolutely  none,"  replied  Dave  evenly. 

"Cut  that  out,  Dan,"  ordered  Rutherford 
curtly. 

The  ex-convict  mumbled  something  into  his 
beard,  but  subsided. 

51 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Two  hours  had  slipped  away  before  Dingwell 
commented  on  the  fact  that  the  sheriff  had  not 
arrived.  He  did  not  voice  his  suspicion  that  the 
Mexican  had  been  intercepted  by  the  Ruther- 
fords. 

"  Looks  like  Sweeney  did  n't  get  my  message," 
he  said  lazily.  "You  never  can  tell  when  a 
Mexican  is  going  to  get  too  tired  to  travel 
farther." 

"Better  hook  up  with  me  on  that  gold-mine 
proposition,  Dave,"  Hal  Rutherford  suggested 
again. 

"No,  I  reckon  not,  Hal.  Much  obliged,  just 
the  same." 

Dave  began  to  watch  the  game  more  closely. 
There  were  points  about  it  worth  noticing.  For 
one  thing,  the  two  strangers  had  a  habit  of 
getting  the  others  into  a  pot  and  cross-raising 
them  exasperatingly.  If  Dave  had  kept  even, 
it  was  only  because  he  refused  to  be  drawn  into 
inviting  pots  when  either  of  the  strangers  was 
dealing.  He  observed  that  though  they  claimed 
not  to  have  met  each  other  before  there  was  team 
work  in  their  play.  Moreover,  the  yellow  and 
blue  chips  were  mostly  piled  up  in  front  of  them, 
while  Meldrum,  Rutherford,  and  the  curio 
dealer  had  all  bought  several  times.  Dave 

52 


\ 
The  Sheriff 's  Son 

waited  until  his  doubts  of  crooked  work  became 
certainty  before  he  moved. 

"The  game's  framed.  Blair  has  rung  in  a 
cold  deck  on  us.  He  and  Smith  are  playing  in 
cahoots." 

Dingwell  had  risen.  His  hands  rested  on  the 
table  as  an  assurance  that  he  did  not  mean  to 
back  up  his  charge  with  a  gunplay  unless  it 
became  necessary. 

The  man  who  called  himself  Blair  wasted  no 
words  in  denial.  His  right  hand  slid  toward  his 
hip  pocket.  Simultaneously  the  fingers  of  Dave's 
left  hand  knotted  to  a  fist,  his  arm  jolted  for- 
ward, and  the  bony  knuckles  collided  with  the 
jaw  of  the  tinhorn.  The  body  of  the  cattleman 
had  not  moved.  There  seemed  no  special  effort 
in  the  blow,  but  Blair  went  backward  in  his 
chair  heels  over  head.  The  man  writhed  on  the 
floor,  turned  over,  and  lay  still. 

From  the  moment  that  he  had  launched  his 
blow  Dave  wasted  no  more  attention  on  Blair. 
His  eyes  fastened  upon  Smith.  The  man  made 
a  motion  to  rise. 

"Don't  you,"  advised  the  cattleman  gently. 
"Not  till  I  say  so,  Mr.  Smith.  There's  no  man- 
ner of  hurry  a-tall.  Meldrum,  see  what  he's 
got  in  his  right-hand  pocket.  Better  not  object, 

53 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Smith,  unless  you  want  to  ride  at  your  own 
funeral." 

Meldrum  drew  from  the  man's  pocket  a  pack 
of  cards. 

"I  thought  so.  They've  been  switching  decks 
on  us.  The  one  we're  playing  with  is  marked. 
Run  your  finger  over  the  ace  of  clubs  there, 
Hal How  about  it?" 

"Pin-pricked,"  announced  Rutherford. 

"And  they've  garnered  in  most  of  the  chips. 
What  do  you  think?" 

"That  I'll  beat  both  their  heads  off,"  cut  in 
Meldrum,  purple  with  rage. 

"Not  necessary,  Dan,"  vetoed  Dingwell. 
"  We  '11  shear  the  wolves.  Each  of  you  help  your- 
self to  chips  equal  to  the  amount  you  have  lost. 
.  .  .  Now,  Mr.  Smith,  you  and  your  partner 
will  dig  up  one  hundred  and  ninety-three  dollars 
for  these  gentlemen." 

"Why?"  sputtered  Smith.  "It's  all  a  frame- 
up.  We've  been  playing  a  straight  game.  But 
say  we  have  n't.  They  have  got  their  chips 
back.  Let  them  cash  in  to  the  house.  What 
more  do  you  want?" 

"One  hundred  and  ninety-three  dollars.  I 
thought  I  mentioned  that  already.  You  tried 
to  rob  these  men  of  that  amount,  but  you 

54 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

did  n't  get  away  with  it.  Now  you'll  rob  your- 
self of  just  the  same  sum.  Frisk  yourself, 
Mr.  Smith." 

"Not  on  your  life  I  won't.  It  ...  it's  an  out- 
rage. It's  robbery.  I'll  not  stand  for  it."  His 
words  were  brave,  but  the  voice  of  the  man 
quavered.  The  bulbous,  fishy  eyes  of  the  cheat 
wavered  before  the  implacable  ones  of  the 
cattleman. 

"Come  through." 

The  gambler's  gaze  passed  around  the  table 
and  found  no  help  from  the  men  he  had  been 
robbing.  A  crowd  was  beginning  to  gather. 
Swiftly  he  decided  to  pay  forfeit  and  get  out 
while  there  was  still  time.  He  drew  a  roll  of 
bills  from  his  pocket  and  with  trembling  fingers 
counted  out  the  sum  named.  He  shoved  it 
across  the  table  and  rose. 

"Now,  take  your  friend  and  both  of  you 
hit  the  trail  out  of  town,"  ordered  the  cattle- 
man. 

Blair  had  by  this  time  got  to  his  feet  and  was 
leaning  stupidly  on  a  chair.  His  companion 
helped  him  from  the  room.  At  the  door  he 
turned  and  glared  at  Dingwell. 

"You're  going  to  pay  for  this  —  and  pay 
big,"  he  spat  out,  his  voice  shaking  with  rage. 

55 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  answered  Dingwell 
easily. 

The  game  broke  up.  Rutherford  nodded  a 
good-night  to  the  cattleman  and  left  with 
Meldrum.  Presently  Dave  noticed  that  Buck 
and  the  rest  of  the  clan  had  also  gone.  Only 
Slim  Sanders  was  left,  and  he  was  playing  the 
wheel. 

"Time  to  hit  the  hay,"  Dave  yawned. 

The  bartender  called  "Good-night"  as  Ding- 
well  went  out  of  the  swinging  doors.  He  said 
afterward  that  he  thought  he  heard  the  sound 
of  scuffling  and  smothered  voices  outside.  But 
his  interest  in  the  matter  did  not  take  him  as 
far  as  the  door  to  find  out  if  anything  was 
wrong. 


Chapter  IV 
Royal  Beaudry  Hears  a  Call 

A  BOW-LEGGED  little  man  with  the  spurs 
still  jingling  on  his  heels  sauntered  down 
one  side  of  the  old  plaza.  He  passed  a  train  of 
fagot-laden  burros  in  charge  of  two  Mexican 
boys  from  Tesuque,  the  sides  and  back  of  each 
diminished  mule  so  packed  with  firewood  that 
it  was  a  comical  caricature  of  a  beruffed  Eliza- 
bethan dame.  Into  the  plaza  narrow,  twisted 
streets  of  adobe  rambled  carelessly.  One  of  these 
led  to  the  San  Miguel  Mission,  said  to  be  the 
oldest  church  in  the  United  States. 

An  entire  side  of  the  square  was  occupied  by 
a  long,  one-story  adobe  structure.  This  was  the 
Governor's  Palace.  For  three  hundred  years  it 
had  been  the  seat  of  turbulent  and  tragic  history. 
Its  solid  walls  had  withstood  many  a  siege  and 
had  stifled  the  cries  of  dozens  of  tortured  pris- 
oners. The  mail-clad  Spanish  explorers  Pene- 
losa  and  De  Salivar  had  from  here  set  out  across 
the  desert  on  their  search  for  gold  and  glory.  In 
one  of  its  rooms  the  last  Mexican  governor  had 
dictated  his  defiance  to  General  Kearny  just 

57 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

before  the  Stars  and  Stripes  fluttered  from  its 
flagpole.  The  Spaniard,  the  Indian,  the  Mexi- 
can, and  the  American  in  turn  had  written  here 
in  action  the  romance  of  the  Southwest. 

The  little  man  was  of  the  outdoors.  His  soft 
gray  creased  hat,  the  sun-tan  on  his  face  and 
neck,  the  direct  steadiness  of  the  blue  eyes  with 
the  fine  lines  at  the  corners,  were  evidence 
enough  even  if  he  had  not  carried  in  the 
wrinkles  of  his  corduroy  suit  about  seven 
pounds  of  white  powdered  New  Mexico. 

He  strolled  down  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the 
Palace,  the  while  he  chewed  tobacco  absent- 
mindedly.  There  was  something  very  much 
on  his  mind,  so  that  it  was  by  chance  alone  that 
his  eye  lit  on  a  new  tin  sign  tacked  to  the  wall. 
He  squinted  at  it  incredulously.  His  mind  di- 
gested the  information  it  contained  while  his 
jaws  worked  steadily. 

The  sign  read:  — 


DESPACHO 

DE 
ROYAL  BEAUDRY,  LICENDIADO. 

58 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

For  those  who  preferred  another  language, 
a  second  announcement  appeared  below  the 
first: — 


ROYAL  BEATORY, 
ATTORNEY  AT  LAW. 


"Sure,  and  it  must  be  the  boy  himself,"  said 
the  little  man  aloud. 

He  opened  the  door  and  walked  in. 

A  young  man  sat  reading  with  his  heels 
crossed  on  the  top  of  a  desk.  A  large  calf -bound 
volume  was  open  before  him,  but  the  book  in 
the  hands  of  the  youth  looked  less  formidable. 
It  bore  the  title,  "Adventures  of  Sherlock 
Holmes."  The  budding  lawyer  flashed  a  startled 
glance  at  his  caller  and  slid  Dr.  Watson's  hero 
into  an  open  drawer. 

The  visitor  grinned  and  remarked  with  a  just 
perceptible  Irish  accent:  "'Tis  a  good  book. 
I've  read  it  myself." 

The  embryo  Blackstone  blushed.  "Say,  are 
you  a  client?"  he  asked. 

59 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"No-o." 

"Gee!  I  was  afraid  you  were  my  first.  I  like 
your  looks.  I'd  hate  for  you  to  have  the  bad 
luck  to  get  me  for  your  lawyer."  He  laughed, 
boyishly.  There  was  a  very  engaging  quality 
about  his  candor. 

The  Irishman  shot  an  abrupt  question  at  him. 
"Are  you  John  Beaudry's  son  —  him  that  was 
fighting  sheriff  of  Washington  County  twenty 
years  ago?" 

A  hint  of  apprehension  flickered  into  the  eyes 
of  the  young  man.  "Yes,"  he  said. 

:<  Your  father  was  a  gr-reat  man,  the  gamest 
officer  that  ever  the  Big  Creek  country  saw. 
Me  name  is  Patrick  Ryan." 

"Glad  to  meet  any  friend  of  my  father,  Mr. 
Ryan."  Roy  Beaudry  offered  his  hand.  His 
fine  eyes  glowed. 

"Wait,"  warned  the  little  cowpuncher  grimly. 
"I'm  no  liar,  whativer  else  I've  been.  Mebbe 
you'll  be  glad  you've  met  me  —  an'  mebbe  you 
won't.  First  off,  I  was  no  friend  of  your  father. 
I  trailed  with  the  Rutherford  outfit  them  days. 
It's  all  long  past  and  I'll  tell  youse  straight 
that  he  just  missed  me  in  the  round-up  that 
sent  two  of  our  bunch  to  the  pen." 

In  the  heart  of  young  Beaudry  a  chill  pre- 
60 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

monition  of  evil  stirred.  His  hand  fell  limply. 
Why  had  this  man  come  out  of  the  dead  past 
to  seek  him?  His  panic-stricken  eyes  clung  as 
though  fascinated  to  those  of  Ryan. 

"Do  you  mean  .  .  .  that  you  were  a  rustler?" 

Ryan  looked  full  at  him.  "You've  said  it.  I 
was  a  wild  young  colt  thim  days,  full  of  the 
divil  and  all.  But  remimber  this.  I  held  no 
grudge  at  Jack  Beaudry.  That's  what  he  was 
elected  for  —  to  put  me  and  my  sort  out  of 
business.  Why  should  I  hate  him  because  he 
was  man  enough  to  do  it?" 

"That's  not  what  some  of  your  friends 
thought." 

"You're  right,  worse  luck.  I  was  out  on  the 
range  when  it  happened.  I'll  say  this  for  Hal 
Rutherford.  He  was  full  of  bad  whiskey  when 
your  father  was  murdered.  .  .  .  But  that  ended 
it  for  me.  I  broke  with  the  Huerf ano  gang  outfit 
and  I've  run  straight  iver  since." 

"Why  have  you  come  to  me?  What  do  you 
want?"  asked  the  young  lawyer,  his  throat 
dry. 

"I  need  your  help." 

"What  for?  Why  should  I  give  it?  I  don't 
know  you." 

"It's  not  for  mysilf  that  I  want  it.  There's 
61 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

a  friend  of  your  father  in  trouble.  When  I  saw 
the  sign  with  your  name  on  it  I  came  in  to  tell 
you." 

"What  sort  of  trouble?" 

"That's  a  long  story.  Did  you  iver  hear  of 
DaveDingwell?" 

"Yes.  I've  never  met  him,  but  he  put  me 
through  law  school." 

"Howcomethat?" 

"I  was  living  in  Denver  with  my  aunt.  A 
letter  came  from  Mr.  Dingwell  offering  to  pay 
the  expenses  of  my  education.  He  said  he  owed 
that  much  to  my  father." 

"Well,  then,  Dave  Dingwell  has  disappeared 
off  the  earth." 

"What  do  you  mean  —  disappeared?"  asked 
Roy. 

"He  walked  out  of  the  Legal  Tender  Saloon 
one  night  and  no  friend  of  his  has  seen  him 
since.  That  was  last  Tuesday." 

"Is  that  all?  He  may  have  gone  hunting  — 
or  to  Denver  —  or  Los  Angeles." 

"No,  he  did  n't  do  any  one  of  the  three.  He 
was  either  murdered  or  else  hid  out  in  the  hills 
by  them  that  had  a  reason  for  it." 

"Do  you  suspect  some  one?" 

"I  do,"  answered  Ryan  promptly.  "If  he 
62 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

was  killed,  two  tinhorn  gamblers  did  it.  If  he's 
under  guard  in  the  hills,  the  Rutherford  gang 
have  got  him."  • 

"The  Rutherfords,  the  same  ones  that  — ?" 

"The  ver-ry  same  —  Hal  and  Buck  and  a 
brood  of  young  hellions  they  have  raised." 

"But  why  should  they  kidnap  Mr.  Dingwell? 
If  they  had  anything  against  him,  why  would  n't 
they  kill  him?" 

"If  the  Rutherfords  have  got  him  it  is  be- 
cause he  knows  something  they  want  to  know. 
Listen,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think." 

The  Irishman  drew  up  a  chair  and  told 
Beaudry  the  story  of  that  night  in  the  Legal 
Tender  as  far  as  he  could  piece  it  together.  He 
had  talked  with  one  of  the  poker-players,  the 
man  that  owned  the  curio  store,  and  from  him 
had  gathered  all  he  could  remember  of  the  talk 
between  Dingwell  and  Rutherford. 

"Get  these  points,  lad,"  Ryan  went  on. 
"Dave  comes  to  town  from  a  long  day's  ride. 
He  tells  Rutherford  that  he  has  been  prospect- 
ing and  has  found  gold  in  Lonesome  Park. 
Nothing  to  that.  Dave  is  a  cattleman,  not  a 
prospector.  Rutherford  knows  that  as  well  as  I 
do.  But  he  falls  right  in  with  Dingwell's  story. 
He  offers  to  go  partners  with  Dave  on  his  gold 

63 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

mine  —  keeps  talking  about  it  —  insists  on 
going  in  with  him." 

"  I  don't  see  anything  in  that,"  said  Roy. 

"You  will  presently.  Keep  it  in  mind  that 
there  was  n't  any  gold  mine  and  could  n't  have 
been.  That  talk  was  a  blind  to  cover  some- 
thing else.  Good  enough.  Now  chew  on  this 
awhile.  Dave  sent  a  Mexican  to  bring  the 
sheriff,  but  Sweeney  did  n't  come.  He  explained 
that  he  wanted  to  go  partners  with  Sweeney 
about  this  gold-mine  proposition.  If  he  was 
talking  about  a  real  gold  mine,  that  is  teetotally 
unreasonable.  Nobody  would  pick  Sweeney  for 
a  partner.  He's  a  fathead  and  Dave  worked 
against  him  before  election.  But  Sweeney  is 
sheriff  of  Washington  County.  Get  that?" 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  Dingwell  had 
something  on  the  Rutherfords  and  was  going 
to  turn  them  over  to  the  law." 

"You're  getting  warm,  boy.  Does  the  hold- 
up of  the  Pacific  Flyer  help  you  any?" 

Roy  drew  a  long  breath  of  surprise.  ;<You 
mean  the  Western  Express  robbery  two  weeks 
ago?" 

"Sure  I  mean  that.  Say  the  Rutherford  out- 
fit did  that  job." 

"And  that  Dingwell  got  evidence  of  it.  But 
64 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

then  they  would  kill  him."  The  heart  of  the 
young  man  sank.  He  had  a  warm  place  in  it 
for  this  unknown  friend  who  had  paid  his  law- 
school  expenses. 

"You're  forgetting  about  the  gold  mine 
Dave  claimed  to  have  found  in  Lonesome  Park. 
Suppose  he  was  hunting  strays  and  saw  them 
cache  their  loot  somewhere.  Suppose  he  dug  it 
up.  Say  they  knew  he  had  it,  but  did  n't  know 
where  he  had  taken  it.  They  could  n't  kill  him. 
They  would  have  to  hold  him  prisoner  till  they 
could  make  him  tell  where  it  was." 

The  young  lawyer  shook  his  head.  "Too 
many  ifs.  Each  one  makes  a  weak  joint  in  your 
argument.  Put  them  all  together  and  it  is  full 
of  holes.  Possible,  but  extremely  improbable." 

An  eager  excitement  flashed  in  the  blue  eyes 
of  the  Irishman. 

"You're  looking  at  the  thing  wrong  end  to. 
Get  a  grip  on  your  facts  first.  The  Western 
Express  Company  was  robbed  of  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars  and  the  robbers  were  run  into  the 
hills.  The  Rutherford  outfit  is  the  very  gang 
to  pull  off  that  hold-up.  Dave  tells  Hal  Ruth- 
erford, the  leader  of  the  tribe,  that  he  has  sent 
for  the  sheriff.  Hal  tries  to  get  him  to  call  it  off. 
Dave  talks  about  a  gold  mine  he  has  found  and 

65 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Rutherford  tries  to  fix  up  a  deal  with  him. 
There's  no  if  about  any  of  that,  me  young 
Sherlock  Holmes." 

"No,  you've  built  up  a  case.  But  there's  a 
stronger  case  already  built  for  us,  is  n't  there? 
Dingwell  exposed  the  gamblers  Blair  and 
Smith,  knocked  one  of  them  cold,  made  them 
dig  up  a  lot  of  money,  and  drove  them  out  of 
town.  They  left,  swearing  vengeance.  He  rides 
away,  and  he  is  never  seen  again.  The  natural 
assumption  is  that  they  lay  in  wait  for  him  and 
killed  him." 

"Then  where  is  the  body?" 

"Lying  out  in  the  cactus  somewhere  —  or 
buried  in  the  sand." 

"That  wouldn't  be  a  bad  guess  —  if  it 
was  n't  for  another  bit  of  testimony  that  came 
in  to  show  that  Dave  was  alive  five  hours  after 
he  left  the  Legal  Tender.  A  sheepherder  on  the 
Creosote  Flats  heard  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs 
early  next  morning.  He  looked  out  of  his  tent 
and  saw  three  horses.  Two  of  the  riders  carried 
rifles.  The  third  rode  between  them.  He  did  n't 
carry  any  gun.  They  were  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards  away  and  the  herder  did  n't  recognize 
any  of  the  men.  But  it  looked  to  him  like  the 
man  without  the  gun  was  a  prisoner." 

66 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Well,  what  does  that  prove?" 

"If  the  man  in  the  middle  was  Dave  —  and 
that 's  the  hunch  I  'm  betting  on  to  the  limit  — 
it  lets  out  the  tinhorns.  Their  play  would  be  to 
kill  and  make  a  quick  getaway.  There  would  n't 
be  any  object  in  their  taking  a  prisoner  away 
off  to  the  Flats.  If  this  man  was  Dave,  Blair 
and  Smith  are  eliminated  from  the  list  of  sus- 
pects. That  leaves  the  Rutherfords." 

"  But  you  don't  know  that  this  was  Dingwell." 

"That's  where  you  come  in,  me  brave  Sher- 
lock. Dave's  friends  can't  move  to  help  him. 
You  see,  they're  all  known  men.  It  might  be 
the  end  of  Dave  if  they  lifted  a  finger.  But 
you're  not  known  to  the  Rutherfords.  You 
slip  in  over  Wagon  Wheel  Gap  to  Huerfano 
Park,  pick  up  what  you  can,  and  come  out  to 
Battle  Butte  with  your  news." 

"You  mean  —  spy  on  them?" 

"Of  coorse." 

"But  what  if  they  suspected  me?" 

"Then  your  heirs  at  law  would  collect  the 
insurance,"  Ryan  told  him  composedly. 

Excuses  poured  out  of  young  Beaudry  one  on 
top  of  another.  "No,  I  can't  go.  I  won't  mix 
up  in  it.  It's  not  my  affair.  Besides,  I  can't 
get  away  from  my  business." 

67 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"I  see  your  business  keeps  you  jumping," 
dryly  commented  the  Irishman.  "And  you 
know  best  whether  it's  your  affair." 

Beaudry  could  have  stood  it  better  if  the  man 
had  railed  at  him,  if  he  had  put  up  an  argument 
to  show  why  he  must  come  to  the  aid  of  the 
friend  who  had  helped  him.  This  cool,  contempt- 
uous dismissal  of  him  stung.  He  began  to  pace 
the  room  in  rising  excitement. 

"I  hate  that  country  up  there.  I've  got  no 
use  for  it.  It  killed  my  mother  just  as  surely  as 
it  did  my  father.  I  left  there  when  I  was  a 
child,  but  I'll  never  forget  that  dreadful  day 
seventeen  years  ago.  Sometimes  I  wake  in  bed 
out  of  some  devil's  nightmare  and  live  it  over. 
Why  should  I  go  back  to  that  bloody  battle- 
ground? Has  n't  it  cost  me  enough  already? 
It's  easy  for  you  to  come  and  tell  me  to  go  to 
Huerfano  Park  — " 

"Hold  your  horses,  Mr.  Beaudry.  I'm  not 
tellin'  you  to  go.  I  've  laid  the  facts  before  ye. 
Go  or  stay  as  you  please." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  snapped  back  the 
young  man.  "But  I  know  what  you'll  think  of 
me  if  I  don't  go." 

"What  you'll  think  of  yourself  matters  more. 
I  have  n't  got  to  live  with  ye  for  forty  years." 

68 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Roy  Beaudry  writhed.  He  was  sensitive  and 
high-strung.  Temperamentally  he  coveted  the 
good  opinion  of  those  about  him.  Moreover, 
he  wanted  to  deserve  it.  No  man  had  ever 
spoken  to  him  in  just  the  tone  of  this  little  Irish 
cowpuncher,  who  had  come  out  of  nowhere  into 
his  life  and  brought  to  him  his  first  big  problem 
for  decision.  Even  though  the  man  had  con- 
fessed himself  a  rustler,  the  young  lawyer  could 
not  escape  his  judgment.  Pat  Ryan  might  have 
ridden  on  many  lawless  trails  in  his  youth,  but 
the  dynamic  spark  of  self-respect  still  burned 
in  his  soul.  He  was  a  man,  every  inch  of  his 
five-foot  three. 

"I  want  to  live  at  peace,"  the  boy  went  on 
hotly.  "Huerfano  Park  is  still  in  the  dark 
ages.  I'm  no  gunman.  I  stand  for  law  and  order. 
This  is  the  day  of  civilization.  Why  should  I 
embroil  myself  with  a  lot  of  murderous  out- 
laws when  what  I  want  is  to  sit  here  and  make 
friends—?" 

The  Irishman  hammered  his  fist  on  the  table 
and  exploded.  "Then  sit  here,  damn  ye!  But 
why  the  hell  should  any  one  want  to  make 
friends  with  a  white-livered  pup  like  you?  I 
thought  you  was  Jack  Beaudry 's  son,  but  I'll 
niver  believe  it.  Jack  did  n't  sit  on  a  padded 

69 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

chair  and  talk  about  law  and  order.  By  God, 
no!  He  went  out  with  a  six-gun  and  made  them. 
No  gamer,  whiter  man  ever  strapped  a  forty- 
four  to  his  hip.  He  niver  talked  about  what  it 
would  cost  him  to  go  through  for  his  friends. 
He  just  went  the  limit  without  any  guff." 

Ryan  jingled  out  of  the  room  in  hot  scorn 
and  left  one  young  peace  advocate  in  a  turmoil 
of  emotion. 

Young  Beaudry  did  not  need  to  discuss  with 
himself  the  ethics  of  the  situation.  A  clear 
call  had  come  to  him  on  behalf  of  the  man  who 
had  been  his  best  friend,  even  though  he  had 
never  met  him.  He  must  answer  that  call,  or 
he  must  turn  his  back  on  it.  Sophistry  would 
not  help  at  all.  There  were  no  excuses  his  own 
mind  would  accept. 

But  Royal  Beaudry  had  been  timid  from  his 
childhood.  He  had  inherited  fear.  The  shadow 
of  it  had  always  stretched  toward  him.  His 
cheeks  burned  with  shame  to  recall  that  it  had 
not  been  a  week  since  he  had  looked  under  the 
bed  at  night  before  getting  in  to  make  sure 
nobody  was  hidden  there.  What  was  the  use  of 
blinking  the  truth?  He  was  a  born  coward.  It 
was  the  skeleton  in  the  closet  of  his  soul.  His 
schooldays  had  been  haunted  by  the  ghost  of 

70 


Then  sit  here,  damn  ye ! 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

dread.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  played  truant, 
though  he  had  admired  beyond  measure  the 
reckless  little  dare-devils  who  took  their  fun 
and  paid  for  it.  He  had  contrived  to  avoid 
fights  with  his  mates  and  thrashings  from  the 
teachers.  On  the  one  occasion  when  public 
opinion  had  driven  him  to  put  up  his  fists,  he 
had  been  saved  from  disgrace  only  because  the 
bully  against  whom  he  had  turned  proved  to 
be  an  arrant  craven. 

He  remembered  how  he  had  been  induced  to 
go  out  and  try  for  the  football  team  at  the 
university.  His  fellows  knew  him  as  a  fair 
gymnast  and  a  crack  tennis  player.  He  was 
muscular,  well-built,  and  fast  on  his  feet,  almost 
perfectly  put  together  for  a  halfback.  On  the 
second  day  of  practice  he  had  shirked  a  hard 
tackle,  though  it  happened  that  nobody  sus- 
pected the  truth  but  himself.  Next  morning  he 
turned  in  his  suit  with  the  plea  that  he  had 
promised  his  aunt  not  to  play. 

Now  trepidation  was  at  his  throat  again,  and 
there  was  no  escape  from  a  choice  that  would 
put  a  label  on  him.  It  had  been  his  right  to  play 
football  or  not  as  he  pleased.  But  this  was 
different.  A  summons  had  come  to  his  loyalty, 
to  the  fundamental  manhood  of  him.  If  he 

71 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

left  David  Dingwell  to  his  fate,  he  could  never 
look  at  himself  again  in  the  glass  without  know- 
ing that  he  was  facing  a  dastard. 

The  trouble  was  that  he  had  too  much  imag- 
ination. As  a  child  he  had  conjured  dragons 
out  of  the  darkness  that  had  no  existence  except 
in  his  hectic  fancy.  So  it  was  now.  He  had  only 
to  give  his  mind  play  to  see  himself  helpless  in 
the  hands  of  the  Rutherfords. 

But  he  was  essentially  stanch  and  generous. 
Fate  had  played  him  a  scurvy  trick  in  making 
him  a  trembler,  but  he  knew  it  was  not  in  him 
to  turn  his  back  on  Dingwell.  No  matter  how 
much  he  might  rebel  and  squirm  he  would  have 
to  come  to  time  in  the  end. 

After  a  wretched  afternoon  he  hunted  up 
Ryan  at  his  hotel. 

"When  do  you  want  me  to  start?"  he  asked 
sharply. 

The  little  cowpuncher  was  sitting  in  the 
lobby  reading  a  newspaper.  He  took  one  look 
at  the  harassed  youth  and  jumped  up. 

"Say,  you're  all  right.   Put  her  there." 

Royal's  cold  hand  met  the  rough  one  of 
Ryan.  The  shrewd  eyes  of  the  Irishman  judged 
the  other. 

"I  knew  youse  couldn't  be  a  quitter  and 
72 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

John  Beaudry's  son,"  he  continued.  "Why, 
come  to  that,  the  sooner  you  start  the  quicker." 

"I'll  have  to  change  my  name." 

"Sure  you  will.  And  you'd  better  peddle 
something  —  insurance,  or  lightning  rods,  or 
'The  Royal  Gall'ry  of  Po'try  'n  Art'  or  — " 

"  'Life  of  the  James  and  Younger  Brothers.' 
That  ought  to  sell  well  with  the  Rutherfords," 
suggested  Roy  satirically,  trying  to  rise  to  the 
occasion. 

"Jess  Tighe  and  Dan  Meldrum  don't  need 
any  pointers  from  the  James  Boys." 

"Tighe  and  Meldrum —   Who  are  they?" 

"Meldrum  is  a  coyote  your  father  trapped 
and  sent  to  the  pen.  He 's  a  bad  actor  for  fair. 
And  Tighe  —  well,  if  you  put  a  hole  in  his  head 
you'd  blow  out  the  brains  of  the  Rutherford 
gang.  For  hiven's  sake  don't  let  Jess  know  who 
you  are.  All  of  sivinteen  years  he's  been  a 
cripple  on  crutches,  and  't  was  your  father  that 
laid  him  up  the  day  of  his  death.  He 's  a  rivinge- 
ful  divil  is  Jess." 

Beaudry  made  no  comment.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  his  heart  was  of  chilled  lead. 


Chapter  V 
The  Hill  Girl 

riiHE  Irish  cowpuncher  guided  young  Royal 
A  Beaudry  through  Wagon  Wheel  Gap  him- 
self. They  traveled  hi  the  night,  since  it  would 
not  do  for  the  two  to  be  seen  together.  In  the 
early  morning  Ryan  left  the  young  man  and 
turned  back  toward  Battle  Butte.  The  way  to 
Huerfano  Park,  even  from  here,  was  difficult  to 
find,  but  Roy  had  a  map  drawn  from  memory 
by  Pat. 

"I'll  not  guarantee  it,"  the  little  rider  had 
cautioned.  "It's  been  many  a  year  since  I  was 
in  to  the  park  and  maybe  my  memory  is  playing 
tricks.  But  it's  the  best  I  can  do  for  you." 

Beaudry  spent  the  first  half  of  the  day  in  a 
pine  grove  far  up  in  the  hills.  It  would  stir  sus- 
picion if  he  were  seen  on  the  road  at  dawn,  for 
that  would  mean  that  he  must  have  come 
through  the  Gap  in  the  night.  So  he  unsaddled 
and  stretched  himself  on  the  sun-dappled  ground 
for  an  hour  or  two's  rest.  He  did  not  expect  to 
sleep,  even  though  he  had  been  up  all  night.  He 

74 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

was  too  uneasy  in  mind  and  his  nerves  were  too 
taut. 

But  it  was  a  perfect  day  of  warm  spring  sun- 
shine. He  looked  up  into  a  blue  unflecked  sky. 
The  tireless  hum  of  insects  made  murmurous 
music  all  about  him.  The  air  was  vocal  with  the 
notes  of  nesting  birds.  His  eyes  closed  drowsily. 

When  he  opened  them  again,  the  sun  was 
high  in  the  heavens.  He  saddled  and  took  the 
trail.  Within  the  hour  he  knew  that  he  was  lost. 
Either  he  had  mistaken  some  of  the  landmarks 
of  Ryan's  sketchy  map  or  else  the  cowpuncher 
had  forgotten  the  lay  of  the  country. 

Still,  Roy  knew  roughly  the  general  direction 
of  Huerfano  Park.  If  he  kept  going  he  was 
bound  to  get  nearer.  Perhaps  he  might  run  into 
a  road  or  meet  some  sheepherder  who  would 
put  him  on  the  right  way. 

He  was  in  the  heart  of  the  watershed  where 
Big  Creek  heads.  Occasionally  from  a  hilltop 
he  could  see  the  peaks  rising  gaunt  in  front  of 
him.  Between  him  arid  them  were  many  miles 
of  tangled  mesquite,  wooded  canons,  and  hills 
innumerable.  Somewhere  among  the  recesses 
of  these  land  waves  Huerfano  Park  was  hidden. 

It  was  three  o'clock  by  Royal's  watch  when 
he  had  worked  to  the  top  of  a  bluff  which  looked 

75 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

down  upon  a  wooded  valley.  His  eyes  swept 
the  landscape  and  came  to  rest  upon  an  object 
moving  slowly  in  the  mesquite.  He  watched  it 
incuriously,  but  his  interest  quickened  when  it 
came  out  of  the  bushes  into  a  dry  water-course 
and  he  discovered  that  the  figure  was  that  of  a 
human  being.  The  person  walked  with  an  odd, 
dragging  limp.  Presently  he  discerned  that  the 
traveler  below  was  a  woman  and  that  she  was 
pulling  something  after  her.  For  perhaps  fifty 
yards  she  would  keep  going  and  then  would 
stop.  Once  she  crouched  down  over  her  load. 

Roy  cupped  his  hands  at  his  mouth  and 
shouted.  The  figure  straightened  alertly  and 
looked  around.  He  called  to  her  again.  His 
voice  must  have  reached  her  very  faintly.  She 
did  not  try  to  answer  in  words,  but  fired  twice 
with  a  revolver.  Evidently  she  had  not  yet 
seen  him. 

That  there  was  something  wrong  Beaudry 
felt  sure.  He  did  not  know  what,  nor  did  he 
waste  any  time  speculating  about  it.  The  easiest 
descent  to  the  valley  was  around  the  rear  of  the 
bluff ,  but  Roy  clambered  down  a  heavily  wooded 
gulch  a  little  to  the  right.  He  saved  time  by 
going  directly. 

When  Roy  saw  the  woman  again  he  was  close 
76 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

upon  her.  She  was  stooped  over  something  and 
her  back  and  arms  showed  tension.  At  sound  of 
his  approach  she  flung  up  quickly  the  mass  of 
inky  black  hair  that  had  hidden  her  bent  face. 
As  she  rose  it  became  apparent  that  she  was 
tall  and  slender,  and  that  the  clear  complexion, 
just  now  at  least,  was  quite  without  color. 

Moving  forward  through  the  underbrush, 
Beaudry  took  stock  of  this  dusky  nymph  with 
surprise.  In  her  attitude  was  something  wild 
and  free  and  proud.  It  was  as  if  she  challenged 
his  presence  even  though  she  had  summoned 
him.  Across  his  mind  flashed  the  thought  that 
this  was  woman  primeval  before  the  conventions 
of  civilization  had  tamed  her  to  its  uses. 

Her  intent  eyes  watched  him  steadily  as  he 
came  into  the  open. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  demanded. 

"I  was  on  the  bluff  and  saw  you.  I  thought 
you  were  in  trouble.  You  limped  as  if  — " 

He  stopped,  amazed.  For  the  first  time  he 
saw  that  her  foot  was  caught  in  a  wolf  trap. 
This  explained  the  peculiarity  of  gait  he  had 
noticed  from  above.  She  had  been  dragging  the 
heavy  Newhouse  trap  and  the  clog  with  her  as 
she  walked.  One  glance  at  her  face  was  enough 
to  show  how  greatly  she  was  suffering. 

77 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Fortunately  she  was  wearing  a  small  pair  of 
high-heeled  boots  such  as  cowpunchers  use,  and 
the' stiff  leather  had  broken  the  shock  of  the  blow 
from  the  steel  jaws.  Otherwise  the  force  of  the 
released  spring  must  have  shattered  her  ankle. 

"I  can't  quite  open  the  trap,"  she  explained. 
"If  you  will  help  me  — 

Roy  put  his  weight  on  the  springs  and  re- 
moved the  pressure  of  the  jaws.  The  girl  drew 
out  her  numb  leg.  She  straightened  herself, 
swayed,  and  clutched  blindly  at  him.  Next 
moment  her  body  relaxed  and  she  was  uncon- 
scious in  his  arms. 

He  laid  her  on  the  moss  and  looked  about  for 
water.  There  was  some  in  his  canteen,  but  that 
was  attached  to  the  saddle  on  the  top  of  the 
bluff.  For  present  purposes  it  might  as  well 
have  been  at  the  North  Pole.  He  could  not  leave 
her  while  she  was  like  this.  But  since  he  had 
to  be  giving  some  first  aid,  he  drew  from  her 
foot  the  boot  that  had  been  in  the  steel  trap, 
so  as  to  relieve  the  ankle. 

Her  eyelids  fluttered,  she  gave  a  deep  sigh, 
and  looked  with  a  perplexed  doubt  upon  the 
world  to  which  she  had  just  returned. 

"You  fainted,"  Roy  told  her  by  way  of  ex- 
planation. 

78 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

The  young  woman  winced  and  looked  at  her 
foot.  The  angry  color  flushed  into  her  cheeks. 
Her  annoyance  was  at  herself,  but  she  visited 
it  upon  him. 

"Who  told  you  to  take  off  my  boot?" 

"I  thought  it  might  help  the  pain." 

She  snatched  up  the  boot  and  started  to 
pull  it  on,  but  gave  this  up  with  a  long  breath 
that  was  almost  a  groan. 

"I'm  a  nice  kind  of  a  baby,"  she  jeered. 

"It  must  hurt  like  sixty,"  he  ventured.  Then, 
after  momentary  hesitation:  "You'd  better  let 
me  bind  up  your  ankle.  I  have  water  in  my 
canteen.  I'll  run  up  and  get  some  as  soon  as 
I'm  through." 

There  was  something  of  sullen  suspicion  in 
the  glance  her  dark  eyes  flashed  at  him. 

"You  can  get  me  water  if  you  want  to,"  she 
told  him,  a  little  ungraciously. 

He  understood  that  his  offer  to  tie  up  the 
ankle  had  been  refused.  When  he  returned  with 
his  horse  twenty  minutes  later,  he  knew  why 
she  had  let  him  go  for  the  water.  It  had  been 
the  easiest  way  to  get  rid  of  him  for  the  time. 
The  fat  bulge  beneath  her  stocking  showed  that 
she  had  taken  advantage  of  his  absence  to  bind 
the  bruised  leg  herself. 

79 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Is  it  better  now  —  less  painful?"  he  asked. 

She  dismissed  his  sympathy  with  a  curt  little 
nod.  "I'm  the  biggest  fool  in  Washington 
County.  We've  been  setting  traps  for  wolves. 
They've  been  getting  our  lambs.  I  jumped  off 
my  horse  right  into  this  one.  Blacky  is  a  skittish 
colt  and  when  the  trap  went  off,  he  bolted." 

He  smiled  a  little  at  the  disgust  she  heaped 
upon  herself. 

"You'll  have  to  ride  my  horse  to  your  home. 
How  far  is  it?" 

"Five  miles,  maybe."  The  girl  looked  at  her 
ankle  resentfully.  It  was  plain  that  she  did  not 
relish  the  idea  of  being  under  obligations  to  him. 
But  to  attempt  to  walk  so  far  was  out  of  the 
question.  Even  now  when  she  was  not  using 
the  foot  she  suffered  a  good  deal  of  pain. 

"Cornell  isn't  a  bit  skittish.  He's  an  old 
plug.  You'll  find  his  gait  easy,"  Beaudry  told 
her. 

If  she  had  not  wanted  to  keep  her  weight 
from  the  wounded  ankle,  she  would  have 
rejected  scornfully  his  offer  to  help  her  mount, 
for  she  was  used  to  flinging  her  lithe  body  into 
the  saddle  as  easily  as  her  brothers  did.  The 
girl  had  read  in  books  of  men  aiding  women  to 
reach  their  seat  on  the  back  of  a  horse,  but  she 

SO 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

had  not  the  least  idea  how  the  thing  was  done. 
Because  of  her  ignorance  she  was  embarrassed. 
The  result  was  that  they  boggled  the  business, 
and  it  was  only  at  the  third  attempt  that  he 
got  her  on  as  gracefully  as  if  she  had  been  a 
sack  of  meal. 

"Sorry.  I'm  awfully  awkward,"  he  apolo- 
gized. 

Again  an  angry  flush  stained  her  cheeks.  The 
stupidity  had  been  hers,  not  his.  She  resented 
it  that  he  was  ready  to  take  the  blame,  —  read 
into  his  manner  a  condescension  he  did  not  at 
all  feel. 

"I  know  whose  fault  it  was.  I'm  not  a  fool," 
she  snapped  brusquely. 

It  added  to  her  irritation  at  making  such  an 
exhibition  of  clumsiness  that  she  was  one  of  the 
best  horsewomen  in  the  Territory.  Her  life 
had  been  an  outdoor  one,  and  she  had  stuck 
to  the  saddle  on  the  back  of  many  an  outlaw 
bronco  without  pulling  leather.  There  were 
many  things  of  which  she  knew  nothing.  The 
ways  of  sophisticated  women,  the  conventions 
of  society,  were  alien  to  her  life.  She  was 
mountain-bred,  brought  up  among  men,  an 
outcast  even  from  the  better  class  of  Battle 
Butte.  But  the  life  of  the  ranch  she  knew.  That 

81 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

this  soft-cheeked  boy  from  town  should  think 
she  did  not  know  how  to  get  on  a  horse  was  a 
little  too  humiliating.  Some  day,  if  she  ever 
got  a  chance,  she  would  let  him  see  her  vault 
into  the  saddle  without  touching  the  stirrups. 

The  young  man  walking  beside  the  horse 
might  still  be  smooth-cheeked,  but  he  had  the 
muscles  of  an  athlete.  He  took  the  hills  with  a 
light,  springy  step  and  breathed  easily  after 
stiff  climbing.  His  mind  was  busy  making  out 
what  manner  of  girl  this  was.  She  was  new  to 
his  experience.  He  had  met  none  like  her.  That 
she  was  a  proud,  sulky  creature  he  could  easily 
guess  from  her  quickness  at  taking  offense.  She 
resented  even  the  appearance  of  being  ridicu- 
lous. Her  acceptance  of  his  favors  carried  al- 
ways the  implication  that  she  hated  him  for 
offering  them.  It  was  a  safe  guess  that  back  of 
those  flashing  eyes  were  a  passionate  temper 
and  an  imperious  will. 

It  was  evident  that  she  knew  the  country  as 
a  teacher  knows  the  primer  through  which  she 
leads  her  children.  In  daylight  or  in  darkness, 
with  or  without  a  trail,  she  could  have  followed 
almost  an  air-line  to  the  ranch.  The  paths  she 
took  wound  in  and  out  through  unsuspected 
gorges  and  over  divides  that  only  goats  or  cow- 

82 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

ponies  could  have  safely  scrambled  up  and 
down.  Hidden  pockets  had  been  cached  here  so 
profusely  by  nature  that  the  country  was  a 
maze.  A  man  might  have  found  safety  from 
pursuit  in  one  of  these  for  a  lifetime  if  he  had 
been  provisioned. 

"Where  were  you  going  when  you  found 
me?"  the  young  woman  asked. 

"Up  to  the  mountain  ranches  of  Big  Creek. 
I  was  lost,  so  we  ought  to  put  it  that  you  found 
me,"  Beaudry  answered  with  the  flash  of  a 
pleasant  smile. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  up  there?"  Her 
keen  suspicious  eyes  watched  him  warily. 

"Sell  windmills  if  I  can.  I've  got  the  best 
proposition  on  the  market." 

"Why  do  you  come  away  up  here?  Don't 
you  know  that  the  Big  Creek  headwaters  are 
off  the  map?" 

"That's  it  exactly,"  he  replied.  "I  expect  no 
agents  get  up  here.  It's  too  hard  to  get  in.  I 
ought  to  be  able  to  sell  a  whole  lot  easier  than 
if  I  took  the  valleys."  He  laughed  a  little,  by 
way  of  taking  her  into  his  confidence.  "I'll  tell 
the  ranchers  that  if  they  buy  my  windmills  it 
will  put  Big  Creek  on  the  map." 

"They  won't  buy  them,"  she  added  with  a 
83 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

sudden  flare  of  temper.  "This  country  up  here 
is  fifty  years  behind  the  times.  It  does  n't  want 
to  be  modern." 

Over  a  boulder  bed,  by  rock  fissures,  they 
came  at  last  to  a  sword  gash  in  the  top  of  the 
world.  It  cleft  a  passage  through  the  range  to 
another  gorge,  at  the  foot  of  which  lay  a  moun- 
tain park  dotted  with  ranch  buildings.  On 
every  side  the  valley  was  hemmed  in  by  giant 
peaks. 

"Huerfano  Park?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"You  live  here?" 

"Yes."  She  pointed  to  a  group  of  buildings 
to  the  left.  "That  is  my  father's  place.  They 
call  it  the  *  Horse  Ranch.'" 

He  turned  startled  eyes  upon  her.  "Then 
you  are  — ?" 

"Beulah  Rutherford,  the  daughter  of  Hal 
Rutherford." 


Chapter  VI 
"Cherokee  Street" 

SHE  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence  after 
her  announcement. 

"What's  the  matter?  You  look  as  if  you  had 
seen  a  ghost." 

He  had.  The  ghost  of  a  dreadful  day  had 
leaped  at  him  out  of  the  past.  Men  on  murder 
bent  were  riding  down  the  street  toward  their 
victim.  At  the  head  of  that  company  rode  her 
father;  the  one  they  were  about  to  kill  was  his. 
A  wave  of  sickness  shuddered  through  him. 

"It  —  it's  my  heart,"  he  answered  in  a 
smothered  voice.  "Sometimes  it  acts  queer. 
I'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute." 

The  young  woman  drew  the  horse  to  a  halt 
and  looked  down  at  him.  Her  eyes,  for  the  first 
time  since  they  had  met,  registered  concern. 

"The  altitude,  probably.  We're  over  nine 
thousand  feet  high.  You're  not  used  to  walking 
in  the  clouds.  We'll  rest  here." 

She  swung  from  the  saddle  and  trailed  the 
reins. 

85 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Sit  down,"  the  girl  ordered  after  she  had 
seated  herself  tailor-fashion  on  the  moss. 

Reluctantly  he  did  as  he  was  told.  He 
clenched  his  teeth  in  a  cold  rage  at  himself. 
Unless  he  conquered  that  habit  of  flying  into 
panic  at  every  crisis,  he  was  lost. 

Beulah  leaned  forward  and  plucked  an 
anemone  blossom  from  a  rock  cranny.  "Is  n't 
it  wonderful  how  brave  they  are?  You  would  n't 
think  they  would  have  courage  to  grow  up  so 
fine  and  delicate  among  the  rocks  without  any 
soil  to  feed  them." 

Often,  in  the  days  that  followed,  he  thought 
of  what  she  had  said  about  the  anemones  and 
applied  it  to  herself.  She,  too,  had  grown  up 
among  the  rocks  spiritually.  He  could  see  the 
effect  of  the  barren  soil  in  her  suspicious  and 
unfriendly  attitude  toward  life.  There  was  in 
her  manner  a  resentment  at  fate,  a  bitterness 
that  no  girl  of  her  years  should  have  felt.  In 
her  wary  eyes  he  read  distrust  of  him.  Was  it 
because  she  was  the  product  of  heredity  and 
environment?  Her  people  had  outlawed  them- 
selves from  society.  They  had  lived  with  their 
hands  against  the  world  of  settled  order.  She 
could  not  escape  the  law  that  their  turbulent 
sins  must  be  visited  upon  her. 

86 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Young  Beaudry  followed  the  lead  she  had 
given  him.  "Yes,  that  is  the  most  amazing 
thing  in  life  —  that  no  matter  how  poor  the 
soil  and  how  bad  the  conditions  fine  and  lovely 
things  grow  up  everywhere." 

The  sardonic  smile  on  her  dark  face  mocked 
him.  "You  find  a  sermon  in  it,  do  you?" 

"Don't  you?" 

She  plucked  the  wild  flower  out  by  the  roots. 
"It  struggles — and  struggles  —  and  blooms 
for  a  day  —  and  withers.  What's  the  use?" 
she  demanded,  almost  savagely.  Then,  before 
he  could  answer,  the  girl  closed  the  door  she 
had  opened  for  him.  "We  must  be  moving.  The 
sun  has  already  set  in  the  valley." 

His  glances  swept  the  park  below.  Heavily 
wooded  gulches  pushed  down  from  the  roots  of 
the  mountains  that  girt  Huerfano  to  meet  the 
fences  of  the  ranchers.  The  cliffs  rose  sheer  and 
bleak.  The  panorama  was  a  wild  and  primitive 
one.  It  suggested  to  the  troubled  mind  of  the 
young  man  an  eagle's  nest  built  far  up  in  the 
crags  from  which  the  great  bird  could  swoop 
down  upon  its  victims.  He  carried  the  figure 
farther.  Were  these  hillmen  eagles,  hawks,  and 
vultures?  And  was  he  beside  them  only  a 
tomtit?  He  wished  he  knew. 

87 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"  Were  you  born  here?  "  he  asked,  his  thoughts 
jumping  back  to  the  girl  beside  him. 

"Yes." 

"And  you've  always  lived  here?" 

"Except  for  one  year  when  I  went  away  to 
school." 

"Where?" 

"To  Denver." 

The  thing  he  was  thinking  jumped  into  words 
almost  unconsciously. 

"Do  you  like  it  here?" 

"Like  it?"  Her  dusky  eyes  stabbed  at  him. 
"What  does  it  matter  whether  I  like  it?  I  have 
to  live  here,  don't  I?" 

The  swift  parry  and  thrust  of  the  girl  was 
almost  ferocious. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  put  it  that  way,"  he 
apologized.  "What  I  meant  was,  did  you  like 
your  year  outside  at  school?" 

Abruptly  she  rose.  "We'll  be  going.  You 
ride  down.  My  foot  is  all  right  now." 

"I  would  n't  think  of  it,"  he  answered 
promptly.  "You  might  injure  yourself  for  life." 

"I  tell  you  I'm  all  right,"  she  said,  impa- 
tience in  her  voice. 

To  prove  her  claim  she  limped  a  few  yards 
slowly.  In  spite  of  a  stubborn  will  the  girl's 

88 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

breath  came  raggedly.  Beaudry  caught  the 
bridle  of  the  horse  and  followed  her. 

"Don't,  please.  You  might  hurt  yourself," 
he  urged. 

She  nodded.  "All  right.  Bring  the  horse 
close  to  that  big  rock." 

From  the  boulder  she  mounted  without  his 
help.  Presently  she  asked  a  careless  question. 

"Why  do  you  call  him  Cornell?  Is  it  for  the 
college?" 

"Yes.  I  went  to  school  there  a  year."  He 
roused  himself  to  answer  with  the  proper  degree 
of  lightness.  "At  the  ball  games  we  barked  in 
chorus  a  rhyme: '  Cornell  I  yell  —  yell  —  yell  — 
Cornell.'  That's  how  it  is  with  this  old  plug. 
If  I  want  to  get  anywhere  before  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  I  have  to  yell  —  yell  —  yell." 

The  young  woman  showed  in  a  smile  a  row  of 
white  strong  teeth.  "I  see.  His  real  name  is 
Day-After-To-Morrow,  but  you  call  him  Cor- 
nell for  short.  Why  not  just  Corn?  He  would 
appreciate  that,  perhaps." 

" You've  christened  him,  Miss  Rutherford. 
Corn  he  shall  be,  henceforth  and  forevermore." 

They  picked  their  way  carefully  down  through 
the  canon  and  emerged  from  it  into  the  open 
meadow.  The  road  led  plain  and  straight  to 

89 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

the  horse  ranch.  Just  before  they  reached  the 
house,  a  young  man  cantered  up  from  the 
opposite  direction. 

He  was  a  black-haired,  dark  young  giant  of 
about  twenty-four.  Before  he  turned  to  the 
girl,  he  looked  her  companion  over  casually  and 
contemptuously. 

"Hello,  Boots!  Where's  your  horse?"  he 
asked. 

"Bolted.   Has  n't  Blacky  got  home  yet?" 

"Don't  know.  Haven't  been  home.  Get 
thrown?" 

"No.  Stepped  into  one  of  your  wolf  traps." 
She  turned  to  include  Beaudry.  "This  gentle- 
man—Mr.—?" 

Caught  at  advantage,  Roy  groped  wildly  for 
the  name  he  had  chosen.  His  mind  was  a  blank. 
At  random  he  snatched  for  the  first  that  came. 
It  happened  to  be  his  old  Denver  address. 

"Cherokee  Street,"  he  gasped. 

Instantly  he  knew  he  had  made  a  mistake. 

"That 's  odd,"  Beulah  said.  " There 's  a  street 
called  Cherokee  in  Denver.  Were  you  named 
for  it?" 

He  lied,  not  very  valiantly.  "Yes,  I — I 
think  so.  You  see,  I  was  born  on  it,  and  my 
parents  —  since  their  name  was  Street,  anyhow, 

90 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

—  thought  it  a  sort  of  distinction  to  give  me 
that  name.  I've  never  much  liked  it." 

The  girl  spoke  to  the  young  man  beside  her. 
"Mr.  Street  helped  me  out  of  the  trap  and  lent 
me  his  horse  to  get  home.  I  hurt  my  leg."  She 
proceeded  to  introductions.  "Mr.  Street,  this 
is  my  brother,  Jeff  Rutherford." 

Jeff  nodded  curtly.  He  happened  to  be  dis- 
mounting, so  he  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands. 
Over  the  back  of  the  horse  he  looked  at  his 
sister's  guest  without  comment.  Again  he 
seemed  to  dismiss  him  from  his  mind  as  of  no 
importance.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  to  Beulah. 

"That's  a  fool  business  —  stepping  into  wolf 
traps.  How  did  you  come  to  do  it?" 

"It  does  n't  matter  how.   I  did  it." 

"Hurt  any?" 

She  swung  from  the  saddle  and  limped  a  few 
steps.  "  No  thing  to  make  any  fuss  about.  Dad 
home?" 

"Yep.  Set  the  trap  again  after  you  sprung  it, 
Boots?" 

"No.  Set  your  own  traps,"  she  flung  over 
her  shoulder.  "This  way,  Mr.  Street." 

Roy  followed  her  to  the  house  and  was  ushered 
into  a  room  where  a  young  man  sat  cleaning  a 
revolver  with  one  leg  thrown  across  a  second 

91 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

chair.  Tilted  on  the  back  of  his  head  was  a 
cowpuncher's  pinched-in  hat.  He  too  had  black 
hair  and  a  black  mustache.  Like  all  the  Ruther- 
fords  he  was  handsome  after  a  fashion,  though 
the  debonair  recklessness  of  his  good  looks 
offered  a  warning  of  temper. 

:"Lo,  Boots,"  he  greeted  his  sister,  and  fas- 
tened his  black  eyes  on  her  guest. 

Beaudry  noticed  that  he  did  not  take  off  his 
hat  or  lif t  his  leg  from  the  chair. 

"Mr.  Street,  this  is  my  brother  Hal.  I  don't 
need  to  tell  you  that  he  has  n't  been  very  well 
brought  up." 

Young  Rutherford  did  not  accept  the  hint. 
"My  friends  take  me  as  they  find  me,  sis. 
Others  can  go  to  Guinea." 

Beulah  flushed  with  annoyance.  She  drew 
one  of  the  gauntlets  from  her  hand  and  with 
the  fingers  of  it  flipped  the  hat  from  the  head 
of  her  brother.  Simultaneously  her  foot  pushed 
away  the  chair  upon  which  his  leg  rested. 

He  jumped  up,  half  inclined  to  be  angry. 
After  a  moment  he  thought  better  of  it,  and 
grinned. 

"I'm  not  the  only  member  of  the  family  shy 
on  manners,  Boots,"  he  said.  "What 's  the  mat- 
ter with  you?  Showing  off  before  company?" 

92 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"I'd  have  a  fine  chance  with  you  three  young 
rowdies  in  the  house,"  she  retorted  derisively. 
"Where's  dad?" 

As  if  in  answer  to  her  question  the  door  opened 
to  let  in  a  big,  middle-aged  rancher  with  a  fine 
shock  of  grizzled  hair  and  heavy  black  eyebrows. 
Beulah  went  through  the  formula  of  introduc- 
tion again,  but  without  it  Beaudry  would  have 
known  this  hawk-nosed  man  whose  gaze  bored 
into  his.  The  hand  he  offered  to  Hal  Rutherford 
was  cold  and  clammy.  A  chill  shiver  passed 
through  him. 

The  young  woman  went  on  swiftly  to  tell 
how  her  guest  had  rescued  her  from  the  wolf 
trap  and  walked  home  beside  her  while  she  rode 
his  horse. 

"I'll  send  for  Doc  Spindler  and  have  him 
look  at  your  ankle,  honey,"  the  father  an- 
nounced at  once. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right  —  bruised  up  a  bit  — 
that's  all,"  Beulah  objected. 

"We'll  make  sure,  Boots.  Slap  a  saddle  on 
and  ride  for  the  Doc,  Hal."  When  the  young 
man  had  left  the  room,  his  father  turned  again 
to  Roy.  His  arm  gathered  in  the  girl  beside 
him.  "We're  sure  a  heap  obliged  to  you,  Mr. 
Street.  It  was  right  lucky  you  happened  along." 

93 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

To  see  the  father  and  daughter  together  was 
evidence  enough  of  the  strong  affection  that 
bound  them.  The  tone  in  which  he  had  spoken 
to  his  son  had  been  brusque  and  crisp,  but  when 
he  addressed  her,  his  voice  took  on  a  softer 
inflection,  his  eyes  betrayed  the  place  she  held 
in  his  heart. 

The  man  looked  what  he  was  —  the  chief  of 
a  clan,  the  almost  feudal  leader  of  a  tribe  which 
lived  outside  the  law.  To  deny  him  a  certain 
nobility  of  appearance  was  impossible.  Young 
Beaudry  guessed  that  he  was  arrogant,  but  this 
lay  hidden  under  a  manner  of  bluff  frankness. 
One  did  not  need  a  second  glance  to  see  from 
whom  the  younger  Rutherfords  had  inherited 
their  dark,  good  looks.  The  family  likeness  was 
strong  in  all  of  them,  but  nature  had  taken  her 
revenge  for  the  anti-social  life  of  the  father. 
The  boys  had  reverted  toward  savagery.  They 
were  elemental  and  undisciplined.  This  was, 
perhaps,  true  of  Beulah  also.  There  were  mo- 
ments when  she  suggested  in  the  startled  poise 
of  her  light  body  and  the  flash  of  her  quick  eyes 
a  wild  young  creature  of  the  forest  set  for  flight. 
But  in  her  case  atavism  manifested  itself  charm- 
ingly in  the  untamed  grace  of  a  rich  young 
personality  vital  with  life.  It  was  an  interesting 

94 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

speculation  whether  in  twenty  years  she  would 
develop  into  a  harridan  or  a  woman  of  unusual 
character. 

The  big  living-room  of  the  ranch  house  was 
a  man's  domain.  A  magnificent  elk  head  deco- 
rated one  of  the  walls.  Upon  the  antlers  rested 
a  rifle  and  from  one  of  the  tines  depended  a  belt 
with  a  six-shooter  in  its  holster.  A  braided 
leather  quirt  lay  on  the  table  and  beside  it  a 
spur  one  of  the  boys  had  brought  in  to  be  riveted. 
Tossed  carelessly  into  one  corner  were  a  fishing- 
rod  and  a  creel.  A  shotgun  and  a  pair  of  rubber 
waders  occupied  the  corner  diagonally  opposite. 

But  there  were  evidences  to  show  that 
Beulah  had  modified  at  least  her  environment. 
An  upright  piano  and  a  music-rack  were  the 
most  conspicuous.  Upon  the  piano  was  a  padded- 
covered  gift  copy  of  "Aurora  Leigh."  A  similar 
one  of  "In  Memoriam"  lay  on  the  mantel  next 
to  a  photograph  of  the  girl's  dead  mother 
framed  in  small  shells.  These  were  mementoes 
of  Beulah's  childhood.  A  good  copy  of  Del 
Sarto's  John  the  Baptist  hanging  from  the  wall 
and  two  or  three  recent  novels  offered  an  inti- 
mation that  she  was  now  beyond  shell  frames 
and  padded-leather  editions. 

Miss  Rutherford  hobbled  away  to  look  after 
95 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

her  ankle  and  to  give  orders  for  supper  to  the 
ranch  cook.  Conversation  waned.  The  owner 
of  the  place  invited  Roy  out  to  look  over  with 
him  a  new  ram  he  had  just  imported  from  Gallo- 
way. The  young  man  jumped  at  the  chance. 
He  knew  as  much  about  sheep  as  he  did  of 
Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  but  he  preferred  to 
talk  about  the  mange  rather  than  his  reasons 
for  visiting  Huerfano  Park. 

Just  at  present  strangers  were  not  welcome 
in  the  park.  Rutherford  himself  was  courteous 
on  account  of  the  service  he  had  done  Beulah, 
but  the  boys  were  frankly  suspicious.  Detec- 
tives of  the  express  company  had  been  poking 
about  the  hills.  Was  this  young  fellow  who 
called  himself  Street  a  spy  sent  in  by  the 
Western?  While  Beaudry  ate  supper  with  the 
family,  he  felt  himself  under  the  close  observa- 
tion of  four  pairs  of  watchful  eyes. 

Afterward  a  young  man  rode  into  the  ranch 
and  another  pair  of  eyes  was  added  to  those 
that  took  stock  of  the  guest.  Brad  Charlton 
said  he  had  come  to  see  Ned  Rutherford  about 
a  gun,  but  Ned's  sister  was  the  real  reason  for 
his  call.  This  young  man  was  something  of  a 
dandy.  He  wore  a  Chihuahua  hat  and  the  pic- 
turesque trappings  with  which  the  Southwest 

96 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

sometimes  adorns  itself.  The  fine  workmanship 
of  the  saddle,  bridle,  and  stirrups  was  notice- 
able. His  silk  handkerchief,  shirt,  and  boots 
were  of  the  best.  There  was  in  his  movements 
an  easy  and  graceful  deliberation,  but  back  of 
his  slowness  was  a  chill,  wary  strength. 

Roy  discovered  shortly  that  Charlton  was  a 
local  Admirable  Crichton.  He  was  known  as  a 
crack  rider,  a  good  roper,  and  a  dead  shot. 
Moreover,  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  ready 
to  fight  at  the  drop  of  the  hat.  To  the  Ruther- 
ford boys  he  was  a  hero.  Whether  he  was  one 
also  to  Beulah  her  guest  had  not  yet  learned, 
but  it  took  no  wiseacre  to  guess  that  he  wanted 
to  be. 

As  soon  as  the  eyes  of  Charlton  and  Beaudry 
met  there  was  born  between  them  an  antago- 
nism. Jealousy  sharpened  the  suspicions  of  the 
young  rancher.  He  was  the  sort  of  man  that 
cannot  brook  rivalry.  That  the  newcomer  had 
been  of  assistance  to  Miss  Rutherford  was 
enough  in  itself  to  stir  his  doubts. 

He  set  himself  to  verify  them. 


Chapter  VII 
Jess  Tighe  Spins  a  Web 

THEN  you  left  Denver,  did  you?"  asked 
Charlton  suavely. 

Roy  laughed.  "Yes,  then  I  left  Denver  and 
went  to  college  and  shouted,  'Rah,  rah,  rah, 
Cornell.'  In  time  I  became  a  man  and  put 
away  childish  things.  Can  I  sell  you  a  windmill, 
Mr.  Charlton,  warranted  to  raise  more  water 
with  less  air  pressure  than  any  other  in  the 
market?" 

"Been  selling  windmills  long?"  the  rancher 
asked  casually. 

It  was  his  ninth  question  in  fifteen  minutes. 
Beaudry  knew  that  he  was  being  cross-examined 
and  his  study  of  law  had  taught  him  that  he 
had  better  stick  to  the  truth  so  far  as  possible. 
He  turned  to  Miss  Rutherford. 

"Your  friend  is  bawling  me  out,"  he  gayly 
pretended  to  whisper.  "I  never  sold  a  windmill 
in  my  life.  But  I'm  on  my  uppers.  I've  got 
a  good  proposition.  This  country  needs  the 
Dynamo  Aermotor  and  I  need  the  money.  So 
I  took  the  agency.  I  have  learned  a  fifteen  min- 

98 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

utes'  spiel.  It  gives  seven  reasons  why  Mr. 
Charlton  will  miss  half  the  joy  of  life  until  he 
buys  a  Dynamo.  Do  you  think  he  is  a  good 
prospect,  Miss  Rutherford?" 

"Dad  has  been  talking  windmill,"  she  said. 
"Sell  him  one." 

"So  has  Jess  Tighe,"  Charlton  added.  He 
turned  to  Jeff  Rutherford.  "  Could  n't  you  take 
Mr.  Street  over  to  see  Jess  to-morrow  morning?  " 

Jeff  started  promptly  to  decline,  but  as  his 
friend's  eyes  met  his  he  changed  his  mind.  "I 
guess  I  could,  maybe." 

"I  don't  want  to  trouble  you,  Mr.  Ruther- 
ford," objected  Roy. 

Something  in  the  manner  of  Charlton  an- 
noyed Beulah.  This  young  man  was  her  guest. 
She  did  not  see  any  reason  why  Brad  should 
bombard  him  with  questions. 

"If  Jeff  is  too  busy  I'll  take  you  myself,"  she 
told  Beaudry. 

"Oh,  Jeff  won't  be  too  busy.  He  can  take  a 
half-day  off,"  put  in  his  father. 

When  Charlton  left,  Beulah  followed  him  as 
far  as  the  porch. 

"Do  you  think  Mr.  Street  is  a  horse-thief 
that  you  ask  him  so  many  questions?"  she  de- 
manded indignantly. 

99 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

He  looked  straight  at  her.  "I  don't  know 
what  he  is,  Beulah,  but  I'm  going  to  find  out." 

"Is  n't  it  possible  that  he  is  what  he  says  he 
is?" 

"Sure  it's  possible,  but  I  don't  believe  it." 

"Of  course,  I  know  you  like  to  think  the 
worst  of  a  man,  but  when  you  meet  him  in  my 
house  I'll  thank  you  to  treat  him  properly.  I 
vouch  for  him." 

''You  never  met  him  before  this  afternoon." 

"That's  my  business.  It  ought  to  be  enough 
for  you  that  he  is  my  guest." 

Charlton  filled  in  the  ellipsis.  "If  it  isn't 
I  can  stay  away,  can't  I?  Well,  I'm  not  going 
to  quarrel  with  you,  Beulah.  Good-night." 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the  ranch, 
Charlton  turned  the  head  of  his  horse,  not 
toward  his  own  place,  but  toward  that  of  Jess 
Tighe. 

Dr.  Spindler  drove  up  while  Beulah  was  still 
on  the  porch.  He  examined  the  bruised  ankle, 
dressed  it,  and  pronounced  that  all  it  needed 
was  a  rest.  No  bones  were  broken,  but  the  liga- 
ments were  strained.  For  several  days  she  must 
give  up  riding  and  walking. 

The  ankle  pained  a  good  deal  during  the 
night,  so  that  its  owner  slept  intermittently. 

100 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

By  morning  she  was  no  longer  suffering,  but 
was  far  too  restless  to  stay  in  the  house. 

"I'm  going  to  drive  Mr.  Street  over  to  the 
Tighe  place  in  the  buggy,"  she  announced  at 
breakfast. 

Her  brothers  exchanged  glances. 

"Think  you'd  better  go  so  far  with  your  bad 
ankle,  honey?"  Hal  Rutherford,  senior,  asked. 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference,  dad,  so 
long  as  I  don't  put  my  weight  on  it." 

She  had  her  way,  as  she  usually  did.  One  of 
the  boys  hitched  up  and  brought  the  team  to 
the  front  of  the  house.  Beaudry  took  the  seat 
beside  Beulah. 

The  girl  gathered  up  the  reins,  nodded  good- 
bye to  her  father,  and  drove  off. 

It  was  such  a  day  as  comes  not  more  than  a 
dozen  times  a  season  even  in  New  Mexico.  The 
pure  light  from  the  blue  sky  and  the  pine- 
combed  air  from  the  hills  were  like  wine  to  their 
young  blood.  Once  when  the  road  climbed  a 
hilltop  the  long  saw-toothed  range  lifted  before 
them,  but  mostly  they  could  not  see  beyond  the 
bastioned  ramparts  that  hemmed  in  the  park 
or  the  nearer  wooded  gulches  that  ran  down 
from  them. 

Beulah  had  brought  her  camera.  They  took 
101 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

pictures  of  each  other.  They  gathered  wild 
flowers.  They  talked  as  eagerly  as  children. 
Somehow  the  bars  were  down  between  them. 
The  girl  had  lost  the  manner  of  sullen  resent- 
ment that  had  impressed  him  yesterday.  She 
was  gay  and  happy  and  vivid.  Wild  roses 
bloomed  in  her  cheeks.  For  this  young  man 
belonged  to  the  great  world  outside  in  which 
she  was  so  interested.  Other  topics  than  horses 
and  cattle  and  drinking-bouts  were  the  themes 
of  his  talk.  He  had  been  to  theaters  and  read 
books  and  visited  large  cities.  His  coming  had 
enriched  life  for  her. 

The  trail  took  them  past  a  grove  of  young 
aspens  which  blocked  the  mouth  of  a  small 
canon  by  the  thickness  of  the  growth. 

"Do  you  see  any  way  in?"  Beulah  asked  her 
companion. 

"No.  The  trees  are  like  a  wall.  There  is  not 
an  open  foot  by  which  one  could  enter." 

"Isn't  there?"  She  laughed.  "There's  a 
way  in  just  the  same.  You  see  that  big  rock 
over  to  the  left.  A  trail  drops  down  into  the 
aspens  back  of  it.  A  man  lives  in  the  gulch,  an 
ex-convict.  His  name  is  Dan  Meldrum." 

"I  expect  he  isn't  troubled  much  with 
visitors." 

102 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"No.  He  lives  alone.  I  don't  like  him.  I  wish 
he  would  move  away.  He  does  n't  do  the  park 
any  good." 

A  man  was  sitting  on  the  porch  of  the  Tighe 
place  as  they  drove  up.  Beside  him  lay  a  pair 
of  crutches. 

"That  is  Jess,"  the  girl  told  Beaudry.  "Don't 
mind  if  he  is  gruff  or  bad-tempered.  He  is 
soured." 

But  evidently  this  was  not  the  morning  for 
Tighe  to  be  gruff.  He  came  to  meet  them  on 
his  crutches,  a  smile  on  his  yellow,  sapless  face. 
That  smile  seemed  to  Roy  more  deadly  than 
anger.  It  did  not  warm  the  cold,  malignant 
eyes  nor  light  the  mordant  face  with  pleasure. 
Only  the  lips  and  mouth  responded  mechani- 
cally to  it. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Beulah.    Come  in." 

He  opened  the  gate  and  they  entered.  Pres- 
ently Beaudry,  his  blood  beating  fast,  found 
himself  shaking  hands  with  Tighe.  The  man 
had  an  odd  trick  of  looking  at  one  always  from 
partly  hooded  eyes  and  at  an  angle. 

"Mr.  Street  is  selling  windmills,"  explained 
Miss  Rutherford.  "Brad  Charlton  said  you 
were  talking  of  buying  one,  so  here  is  your 
chance." 

103 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Yes,  I  been  thinking  of  it."  Tighe's  voice 
was  suave.  "What  is  your  proposition,  Mr. 
Street?" 

Roy  talked  the  Dynamo  Aermotor  for  fif- 
teen minutes.  There  was  something  about  the 
still  look  of  this  man  that  put  him  into  a  cold 
sweat. 

It  was  all  he  could  do  to  concentrate  his  atten- 
tion on  the  patter  of  a  salesman,  but  he  would 
not  let  his  mind  wander  from  the  single  track 
upon  which  he  was  projecting  it.  He  knew  he 
was  being  watched  closely.  To  make  a  mistake 
might  be  fatal. 

"Sounds  good.  I'll  look  your  literature  over, 
Mr.  Street.  I  suppose  you'll  be  in  the  park  a 
few  days?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  can  come  and  see  me  again.  I 
can't  come  to  you  so  easy,  Mr.  —  er  — " 

"Street,"  suggested  Beulah. 

"That's  right -- Street.  Well,  you  see  I'm 
kinder  tied  down."  He  indicated  his  crutches 
with  a  little  lift  of  one  hand.  "Maybe  Miss 
Beulah  will  bring  you  again." 

"Suits  me  fine  if  she  will,"  Beaudry  agreed 
promptly. 

The  half-hooded  eyes  of  the  cripple  slid  to 
104 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

the  girl  and  back  again  to  Roy.  He  had  a  way 
of  dry-washing  the  backs  of  his  hands  like 
Uriah  Heep. 

"Fine.  You'll  stay  to  dinner,  now,  of  course. 
That's  good.  That's  good.  Young  folks  don't 
know  how  it  pleasures  an  old  man  to  meet  up 
with  them  sometimes."  His  low  voice  was  as 
smooth  as  oil. 

Beaudry  conceived  a  horror  of  the  man.  The 
veiled  sneer  behind  the  smile  on  the  sapless 
face,  the  hooded  hawk  eyes,  the  almost  servile 
deference,  held  a  sinister  threat  that  chilled  the 
spine  of  his  guest.  The  young  man  thought  of 
him  as  of  a  repulsive  spider  spinning  a  web  of 
trouble  that  radiated  from  this  porch  all  over 
the  Big  Creek  country. 

"Been  taking  pictures  of  each  other,  I  reckon. 
Fine.  Fine.  Now,  I  wonder,  Miss  Beulah,  if 
you  'd  do  an  old  man  a  favor.  This  porch  is  my 
home,  as  you  might  say,  seeing  as  how  I'm 
sorter  held  down  here.  I  'd  kinder  like  a  picture 
of  it  to  hang  up,  providing  it  ain't  asking  too 
much  of  you." 

"Of  course  not.  I'll  take  it  now/'  answered 
the  girl. 

"That's  right  good  of  you.  I'll  jest  sit  here 
and  be  talking  to  Mr.  Street,  as  you  might  say. 

10,3 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Would  n't  that  make  a  good  picture  —  kinder 
liven  up  the  porch  if  we're  on  it?" 

Roy  felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  protest,  but  he 
dared  not  yield  to  it.  What  was  it  this  man 
wanted  of  the  picture?  Why  had  he  baited  a 
trap  to  get  a  picture  of  him  without  Beulah 
Rutherford  knowing  that  he  particularly  wanted 
it?  While  the  girl  took  the  photograph,  his 
mind  was  racing  for  Tighe's  reason. 

"I'll  send  you  a  copy  as  soon  as  I  print  it, 
Mr.  Tighe,"  promised  Beulah. 

"I'll  sure  set  a  heap  of  store  by  it,  Miss 
Beulah.  ...  If  you  don't  mind  helping  me  set 
the  table,  we'll  leave  Mr.  Street  this  old  news- 
paper for  a  few  minutes  whilst  we  fix  up  a 
snack.  You'll  excuse  us,  Mr.  Street?  That's 
good." 

Beulah  went  into  the  house  the  same  gay 
and  light-hearted  comrade  of  Beaudry  that  she 
had  been  all  morning.  When  he  was  called  in 
to  dinner,  he  saw  at  once  that  Tighe  had  laid 
his  spell  upon  her.  She  was  again  the  sullen, 
resentful  girl  of  yesterday.  Suspicion  filmed 
her  eyes.  The  eager  light  of  faith  in  him  that 
had  quickened  them  while  she  listened  for  his 
answers  to  her  naive  questions  about  the  great 
world  was  blotted  out  completely. 

106 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

She  sat  through  dinner  in  cold  silence.  Tighe 
kept  the  ball  of  conversation  rolling  and 
Beaudry  tried  to  play  up  to  him.  They  talked 
of  stock,  crops,  and  politics.  Occasionally  the 
host  diverted  the  talk  to  outside  topics.  He 
asked  the  young  man  politely  how  he  liked  the 
park,  whether  he  intended  to  stay  long,  how 
long  he  had  lived  hi  New  Mexico,  and  other 
casual  questions. 

Roy  was  glad  when  dinner  was  over.  He 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  when  they  had 
turned  their  backs  upon  the  ranch.  But  his 
spirits  did  not  register  normal  even  in  the  spring 
sunshine  of  the  hills.  For  the  dark  eyes  that 
met  his  were  clouded  with  doubt  and  resent- 
ment. 


Chapter  VIII 

Beulah  Asks  Questions 

ASLIM»  wiry  youth  in  high-heeled  boots 
came  out  of  the  house  with  Brad  Charlton 
just  as  the  buggy  stopped  at  the  porch  of  the 
horse  ranch.   He  nodded  to  Beulah. 

"Xo,  sis." 

"My  brother  Ned  — -  Mr.  Street."  The  girl 
introduced  them  a  little  sulkily. 

Ned  Rutherford  offered  Roy  a  coffee-brown 
hand  and  looked  at  him  with  frank  curiosity. 
He  had  just  been  hearing  a  lot  about  this  good- 
looking  stranger  who  had  dropped  into  the 
park. 

"See  Jess  Tighe?  What  did  he  say  about  the 
windmill?"  asked  Charlton. 

"Wanted  to  think  it  over,"  answered 
Beaudry. 

Beulah  had  drawn  her  brother  to  one  side, 
but  as  Roy  talked  with  Charlton  he  heard  what 
the  other  two  said,  though  each  spoke  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Where  you  going,  Ned?"  the  sister  asked. 

"Oh,  huntin'  strays." 
108 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

" Home  to-night?" 

"Reckon  not." 

"What  deviltry  are  you  and  Brad  up  to  now? 
This  will  be  the  third  night  you've  been  away  — 
and  before  that  it  was  Jeff." 

"S-sh!"  Ned  flashed  a  warning  look  in  the 
direction  of  her  guest. 

But  Beulah  was  angry.  Tighe  had  warned 
her  to  be  careful  what  she  told  Street.  She  dis- 
trusted the  cripple  profoundly.  Half  the  evil 
that  went  on  in  the  park  was  plotted  by  him. 
There  had  been  a  lot  of  furtive  whispering  about 
the  house  for  a  week  or  more.  Her  instinct  told 
her  that  there  was  in  the  air  some  discreditable 
secret.  More  than  once  she  had  wondered 
whether  her  people  had  been  the  express  com- 
pany robbers  for  whom  a  reward  was  out.  She 
tried  to  dismiss  the  suspicion  from  her  mind, 
for  the  fear  of  it  was  like  a  leaden  weight  at 
her  heart.  But  many  little  things  contributed 
to  the  dread.  Rutherford  had  sent  her  just  at 
that  time  to  spend  the  week  at  Battle  Butte. 
Had  it  been  to  get  her  out  of  the  way?  She 
remembered  that  her  father  had  made  to  her 
no  explanation  of  that  scene  in  which  she  and 
Dave  Dingwell  had  played  the  leading  parts. 
There  had  been  many  journeyings  back  and 

109 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

forth  on  the  part  of  the  boys  and  Charlton  and 
her  uncle,  Buck  Rutherford.  They  had  a  way 
of  getting  off  into  a  corner  of  the  corral  and 
talking  low  for  hours  at  a  time.  And  now 
Street  had  come  into  the  tangle.  Were  they 
watching  him  for  fear  he  might  be  a  detective? 

Her  resentment  against  him  and  them  boiled 
over  into  swift  wrath.  "You're  a  fine  lot  —  all 
of  you.  I'd  like  to  wash  my  hands  clean  of 
the  whole  outfit."  She  turned  on  her  heel  and 
strode  limping  to  the  house. 

Ned  laughed  as  he  swung  to  the  back  of  one 
of  the  two  broncos  waiting  with  drooped  heads 
before  the  porch.  He  admired  this  frank,  forth- 
right sister  who  blazed  so  handsomely  into  rage. 
He  would  have  fought  for  her,  even  though  he 
pretended  to  make  a  joke  of  her. 

"Boots  sure  goes  some.  You  see  what  you 
may  be  letting  yourself  in  for,  Brad,"  he  scoffed 
good-naturedly. 

Charlton  answered  with  cool  aplomb.  "Don't 
you  worry  about  me,  Ned.  I  travel  at  a  good 
lick  myself.  She'll  break  to  double  harness 
fine." 

Without  touching  the  stirrup  this  knight  of 
the  chaparreras  flung  himself  into  the  saddle, 
the  rowels  of  his  spurs  whirring  as  he  vaulted. 

110 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

It  was  a  spectacular  but  perfect  mount.  The 
horse  was  off  instantly  at  a  canter. 

Roy  could  not  deny  the  fellow  admiration, 
even  though  he  despised  him  for  what  he  had 
just  said.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  be  con- 
temptuous of  Charlton.  The  man  was  too  virile, 
too  game  for  that.  In  the  telling  Western  phrase, 
he  would  go  through.  Whatever  he  did  was  done 
competently. 

Yet  there  was  something  detestable  in  the 
way  he  had  referred  to  Beulah  Rutherford.  In 
the  first  place,  Roy  believed  it  to  be  a  pure 
assumption  that  he  was  going  to  marry  her. 
Then,  too,  he  had  spoken  of  this  high-spirited 
girl  as  if  she  were  a  colt  to  be  broken  and  he 
the  man  to  wield  the  whip.  Her  rebellion  against 
fate  meant  nothing  more  to  him  than  a  tantrum 
to  be  curbed.  He  did  not  in  the  least  divine  the 
spiritual  unrest  back  of  her  explosion. 

Beaudry  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was 
lucky  for  once.  It  had  been  the  place  of  Ned 
Rutherford  to  rebuke  Charlton  for  his  slighting 
remark.  A  stranger  had  not  the  least  right  to 
interfere  while  the  brother  of  the  girl  was  pres- 
ent. Roy  did  not  pursue  the  point  any  further. 
He  did  not  want  to  debate  with  himself  whether 
he  had  the  pluck  to  throw  down  the  gauntlet 

111 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

to  this  fighting  vaquero  if  the  call  had  eome  to| 
him. 

As  he  walked  into  the  house  and  up  to  his 
room,  his  mind  was  busy  with  another  problem. 
Where  had  Ned  Rutherford  been  for  three  nights 
and  his  brother  Jeff  before  that?  Why  had 
Beulah  flared  into  unexpected  anger?  He,  too, 
had  glimpsed  furtive  whisperings.  Even  a  fool 
would  have  understood  that  he  was  not  a  wel- 
come guest  at  the  horse  ranch,  and  that  his 
presence  was  tolerated  only  because  here  the 
boys  could  keep  an  eye  on  him.  He  was  under 
surveillance.  That  was  plain.  He  had  started 
out  for  a  little  walk  before  breakfast  and  Jeff 
joined  him  from  nowhere  in  particular  to  stroll 
along.  What  was  it  the  Huerfano  Park  settlers 
were  trying  to  hide  from  him?  His  mind  jumped 
promptly  to  the  answer.  Dave  Dingwell,  of 
course. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Rutherford  lay  weeping  in 
the  next  room  face  down  upon  the  bed.  She 
rarely  indulged  in  tears.  It  had  not  happened 
before  since  she  was  seventeen.  But  now  she 
sobbed  into  a  pillow,  softly,  so  that  nobody 
might  hear.  Why  must  she  spend  her  life  in 
such  surroundings?  If  the  books  she  read  told 
the  truth,  the  world  was  full  of  gentle,  kindly 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

people  who  lived  within  the  law  and  respected 
each  other's  rights.  Why  was  it  in  her  horo- 
scope to  be  an  outcast?  Why  must  she  look  at 
everybody  with  bitterness  and  push  friendship 
from  her  lest  it  turn  to  poison  at  her  touch?  For 
one  hour  she  had  found  joy  in  comradeship  with 
this  stranger.  Then  Tighe  had  whispered  it 
that  he  was  probably  a  spy.  She  had  returned 
home  only  to  have  her  doubts  about  her  own 
family  stirred  to  life  again.  Were  there  no  good, 
honest  folk  in  the  world  at  all? 

She  washed  her  telltale  eyes  and  ventured 
downstairs  to  look  after  supper.  The  Mexican 
cook  was  already  peeling  the  potatoes.  She 
gave  him  directions  about  the  meal  and  went 
out  to  the  garden  to  get  some  radishes  and  let- 
tuce. On  the  way  she  had  to  pass  the  corral. 
Her  brother  Hal,  Slim  Sanders,  and  Cherokee 
Street  were  roping  and  branding  some  calves. 
The  guest  of  the  house  had  hung  his  coat  and 
hat  on  a  fence-post  to  keep  them  from  getting 
soiled,  but  the  hat  had  fallen  into  the  dust. 

Beulah  picked  up  the  hat  and  brushed  it. 
As  she  dusted  with  her  handkerchief  the  under 
side  of  the  rim  her  eyes  fell  upon  two  initials 
stamped  into  the  sweat  pad.  The  letters  were 
"R.B."  The  owner  of  the  hat  called  himself 

113 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Cherokee  Street.  Why,  then,  should  he  have! 
these  other  initials  printed  on  the  pad?  There 
could  be  only  one  answer  to  that  question.  He 
was  passing  under  a  name  that  was  not  his  own. 

If  so,  why?  Because  he  was  a  spy  come  to  get 
evidence  against  her  people  for  the  express 
company. 

The  eyes  of  the  girl  blazed.  The  man  had 
come  to  ruin  her  father,  to  send  her  brothers  to 
prison,  and  he  was  accepting  their  hospitality 
while  he  moled  for  facts  to  convict  them.  To 
hear  the  shout  of  his  gay  laughter  as  a  calf 
upset  him  in  the  dust  was  added  fuel  to  the 
fire  of  her  anger.  If  he  had  looked  as  villainous 
as  Dave  Meldrum,  she  could  have  stood  it 
better,  but  any  one  would  have  sworn  that  he 
was  a  clean,  decent  young  fellow  just  out  of 
college. 

She  called  to  him.  Roy  glanced  up  and  came 
across  the  corral.  His  sleeves  were  rolled  to  the 
elbows  and  the  shirt  open  at  the  throat.  Flow- 
ing muscles  rippled  under  the  white  skin  of  his 
forearms  as  he  vaulted  the  fence  to  stand  beside 
her.  He  had  the  graceful  poise  of  an  athlete 
and  the  beautiful,  trim  figure  of  youth. 

Yet  he  was  a  spy.  Beulah  hardened  her  heart. 

"I  found  your  hat  in  the  dust,  Mr.  Street." 
114 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

She  held  it  out  to  him  upside  down,  the  leather 
pad  lifted  by  her  finger  so  that  the  letters  stood 
out. 

The  rigor  of  her  eyes  was  a  challenge.  For  a 
moment,  before  he  caught  sight  of  the  initials, 
he  was  puzzled  at  her  stiffness.  Then  his  heart 
lost  a  beat  and  hammered  wildly.  His  brain 
was  in  a  fog  and  he  could  find  no  words  of 
explanation. 

"It  is  your  hat,  is  n't  it,  Mr.  —  Street?" 

:<Yes."  He  took  it  from  her,  put  it  on,  and 
gulped  "Thanks." 

She  waited  to  give  him  a  chance  to  justify 
himself,  but  he  could  find  no  answer  to  the 
charge  that  she  had  fixed  upon  him.  Scornfully 
she  turned  from  him  and  went  to  the  house. 

Miss  Rutherford  found  her  father  reading  a 
week-old  newspaper. 

"I've  got  fresher  news  than  that  for  you, 
dad,"  she  said.  "I  can  tell  you  who  this  man 
that  calls  himself  Cherokee  Street  is  n't." 

Rutherford  looked  up  quickly.  "You  mean 
who  he  is,  Boots." 

"No,  I  mean  who  he  is  n't.  His  name  is  n't 
Cherokee  Street  at  all." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  he  is  wearing  a  hat  with  the  initials 
115 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

*R.B/  stamped  in  it.  I  gave  him  a  chance  to 
explain  and  he  only  stammered  and  got  white., 
He  had  n't  time  to  think  up  a  lie  that  would 
fit." 

"Dad  burn  it,  Jess  Tighe  is  right,  then.  The 
man  is  a  spy."  The  ranchman  lit  a  cigar  and 
narrowed  his  eyes  in  thought. 

"What  is  he  spying  here  for?" 

"I  reckon  he's  a  detective  of  the  express  com- 
pany nosing  around  about  that  robbery.  Some 
folks  think  it  was  pulled  off  by  a  bunch  up  in 
the  hills  somewhere." 

"By  the  Rutherford  gang?"  she  quoted. 

He  looked  at  her  uneasily.  The  bitterness  in 
her  voice  put  him  on  the  defensive.  "Sho, 
Boots!  That's  just  a  way  folks  have  of  talking. 
We've  got  our  enemies.  Lots  of  people  hate  us 
because  we  won't  let  any  one  run  over  us." 

She  stood  straight  and  slender  before  him, 
her  eyes  fixed  in  his.  "Do  they  say  we  robbed 
the  express  company?" 

"They  don't  say  it  out  loud  if  they  do  —  not 
where  I  can  hear  them,"  he  answered  grimly. 

"Did  we?"  she  flung  at  him. 

His  smile  was  forced.  The  question  disturbed 
him.  That  had  always  been  her  way,  even  when 
she  was  a  small  child,  to  fling  herself  headlong 

116 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

at  difficulties.  She  had  never  been  the  kind  to 
be  put  off  with  anything  less  than  the  truth. 

"I  did  n't.   Did  you?"  he  retorted. 

"How  about  the  boys  —  and  Uncle  Buck  — 
and  Brad  Charlton?"  she  demanded. 

"Better  ask  them  if  you  want  to  know."  With 
a  flare  of  temper  he  contradicted  himself.  "No, 
you'd  better  mind  your  own  business,  girl. 
Forget  your  foolishness  and  'tend  to  your 
knitting." 

"I  suppose  it  is  n't  my  business  if  my  kin  go 
to  the  penitentiary  for  train  robbery." 

"They're  not  going  any  such  place.  If  you 
want  to  know,  I  give  you  my  word  that  none  of 
us  Rutherfords  have  got  the  gold  stolen  from 
the  Western  Express  Company." 

"And  don't  know  where  it  is?" 

"Have  n't  the  least  idea  —  not  one  of  us." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  More  than 
once  her  father  had  kept  from  her  secrets  of  the 
family  activities,  but  he  had  never  lied  to  her. 

"Then  it  does  n't  matter  about  this  detective. 
He  can  find  out  nothing  against  us,"  she  re- 
flected aloud. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.  We've  had  our 
troubles  and  we  don't  want  them  aired.  There 
was  that  shooting  scrape  Hal  got  into  down  at 

117 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Battle  Butte,  for  instance.  Get  a  little  more 
evidence  and  the  wrong  kind  of  a  jury  would 
send  him  up  for  it.  No,  we'll  keep  an  eye  on 
Mr.  Cherokee  Street,  or  whatever  his  name  is. 
Reckon  I'll  ride  over  and  have  a  talk  with  Jess 
about  it." 

"Why  not  tell  this  man  Street  that  he  is  not 
wanted  and  so  be  done  with  it?" 

"Because  we  would  n't  be  done  with  it.  An- 
other man  would  come  hi  his  place.  We'll  keep 
him  here  where  we  can  do  a  little  detective  work 
on  him,  too." 

"I  don't  like  it.  The  thing  is  underhanded. 
I  hate  the  fellow.  It's  not  decent  to  sit  at  table 
with  a  man  who  is  betraying  our  hospitality," 
she  cried  hotly. 

"It  won't  be  for  long,  honey.  Just  leave  him 
to  us.  We  '11  hang  up  his  pelt  to  dry  before  we  're 
through  with  him." 

"You  don't  mean—?" 

"No,  nothing  like  that.  But  he'll  crawl  out 
of  the  park  like  a  whipped  cur  with  its  tail 
between  its  legs." 

The  cook  stood  in  the  doorway.  "Miss 
Beulah,  do  you  want  that  meat  done  in  a  pot 
roast?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  I'll  show  you."  She  turned  at  the 
118 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

door.  "By  the  way,  dad,  I  took  a  snapshot  of 
Mr.  Tighe  on  his  porch.  I'll  develop  it  to-night 
and  you  can  take  it  to  him  in  the  morning." 

"All  right.  Don't  mention  to  anybody  that 
matter  we  were  discussing.  Act  like  you've 
forgotten  all  about  what  you  found  out,  Boots." 

The  girl  nodded.  "Yes." 


Chapter  IX 
The  Man  on  the  Bed 

BETJLAH  RUTHERFORD  found  it  impos- 
sible to  resume  a  relation  of  friendliness 
toward  her  guest.  By  nature  she  was  elemental 
and  direct.  A  few  months  earlier  she  had  be- 
come the  teacher  of  the  Big  Creek  school,  but 
until  that  time  life  had  never  disciplined  her  to 
repress  the  impulses  of  her  heart.  As  a  child 
she  had  been  a  fierce,  wild  little  creature  full  of 
savage  affections  and  generosities.  She  still 
retained  more  feminine  ferocity  than  social 
usage  permits  her  sex.  It  was  not  in  her  to  wel- 
come an  enemy  with  smiles  while  she  hated  him 
in  her  soul.  The  best  she  could  do  was  to  hold 
herself  to  a  brusque  civility  whenever  she  met 
Beaudry. 

As  for  that  young  man,  he  was  in  a  most  un- 
happy frame  of  mind.  He  writhed  at  the  false 
position  in  which  he  found  himself.  It  was  bad 
enough  to  forfeit  the  good  opinion  of  this  prim- 
itive young  hill  beauty,  but  it  was  worse  to 
know  that  in  a  measure  he  deserved  it.  He  saw, 
too,  that  serious  consequences  were  likely  to 

120 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

follow  her  discovery,  and  he  waited  with  nerves 
on  the  jump  for  the  explosion. 

None  came.  When  he  dragged  himself  to 
dinner,  Beulah  was  stiff  as  a  ramrod,  but  he 
could  note  no  difference  in  the  manner  of  the 
rest.  Was  it  possible  she  had  not  told  her 
father?  He  did  not  think  this  likely,  and  his 
heart  was  in  panic  all  through  the  meal. 

Though  he  went  to  his  room  early,  he  spent 
a  sleepless  night  full  of  apprehension.  What 
were  the  Rutherfords  waiting  for?  He  was  con- 
vinced that  something  sinister  lay  behind  their 
silence. 

After  breakfast  the  ranchman  rode  away.  Jeff 
and  Slim  Sanders  jogged  off  on  their  cowponies 
to  mend  a  broken  bit  of  fence.  Hal  sat  on  the 
porch  replacing  with  rivets  the  torn  strap  of  a 
stirrup. 

Beaudry  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  found 
his  hostess  digging  around  the  roots  of  some 
rosebushes  in  her  small  garden.  Curtly  she 
declined  his  offer  to  take  the  spade.  For  a  min- 
ute he  watched  her  uneasily  before  he  blurted 
out  his  intention  of  going. 

"I'll  move  up  to  the  other  end  of  the  park 
and  talk  windmill  to  the  ranchers  there,  Miss 
Rutherford.  You've  been  awfully  good  to  me, 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

but  I  won't  impose  myself  on  your  hospitality 
any  longer,"  he  said. 

He  had  dreaded  to  make  the  announcement 
for  fear  of  precipitating  a  crisis,  but  the  young 
woman  made  no  protest.  Without  a  word  of 
comment  she  walked  beside  him  to  the  house. 

"Hal,  will  you  get  Mr.  Street's  horse?"  she 
asked  her  brother.  "  He  is  leaving  this  morning." 

Young  Rutherford's  eyes  narrowed.  It  was 
plain  that  he  had  been  caught  by  surprise  and 
did  not  know  what  to  do. 

"Where  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"What  do  you  care  where  he  is  going?  Get 
the  horse  —  or  I  will,"  she  ordered  imperiously. 

"I'm  going  to  board  at  one  of  the  ranches 
farther  up  the  park,"  explained  Roy. 

"Better  wait  till  dad  comes  home,"  suggested 
Hal. 

"No,  I'll  go  now."  Royal  Beaudry  spoke 
with  the  obstinacy  of  a  timid  man  who  was 
afraid  to  postpone  the  decision. 

"No  hurry,  is  there?"  The  black  eyes  of 
Rutherford  fixed  him  steadily. 

His  sister  broke  in  impatiently.  "Can't  he  go 
when  he  wants  to,  Hal?  Get  Mr.  Street's  horse." 
She  whirled  on  Beaudry  scornfully.  "That  is 
what  you  call  yourself,  is  n't  it  — Street?" 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

The  unhappy  youth  murmured  "Yes." 

"Let  him  get  his  own  horse  if  he  wants  to 
hit  the  trail  in  such  a  hurry,"  growled  Hal 
sulkily. 

Beulah  walked  straight  to  the  stable.  Awk- 
wardly Beaudry  followed  her  after  a  moment  or 
two.  The  girl  was  leading  his  horse  from  the 
stall. 

"I'll  saddle  him,  Miss  Rutherford,"  he  de- 
murred, the  blanket  in  his  hand. 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment,  dropped  the 
bridle,  and  turned  stiffly  away.  He  understood 
perfectly  that  she  had  been  going  to  saddle  the 
horse  to  justify  the  surface  hospitality  of  the 
Rutherfords  to  a  man  they  despised. 

Hal  was  still  on  the  porch  when  Roy  rode  up, 
but  Beulah  was  nowhere  in  sight.  The  young 
hillman  did  not  look  up  from  the  rivet  he  was 
driving.  Beaudry  swung  to  the  ground  and 
came  forward. 

"I'm  leaving  now.  I  should  like  to  tell  Miss 
Rutherford  how  much  I'm  in  her  debt  for  tak- 
ing a  stranger  in  so  kindly,"  he  faltered. 

"I  reckon  you  took  her  in  just  as  much  as  she 
did  you,  Mr.  Spy."  Rutherford  glowered  at 
him  menacingly.  "I'd  advise  you  to  straddle 
that  horse  and  git." 

123 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Roy  controlled  his  agitation  except  for  a 
slight  trembling  of  the  fingers  that  grasped  the 
mane  of  his  cowpony.  :t  You've  used  a  word 
that  is  n't  fair.  I  did  n't  come  here  to  harm  any 
of  your  people.  If  I  could  explain  to  Miss 
Rutherford  —  " 

She  stood  in  the  doorway,  darkly  contemptu- 
ous. Fire  flashed  in  her  eyes,  but  the  voice  of 
the  girl  was  coldly  insolent. 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  she  informed  him. 

Her  brother  leaned  forward  a  little.  His 
crouched  body  looked  like  a  coiled  spring  in  its 
tenseness.  "Explain  yourself  down  that  road, 
Mr.  Street  —  pronto"  he  advised. 

Beaudry  flashed  a  startled  glance  at  him, 
swung  to  the  saddle,  and  was  away  at  a  canter. 
The  look  in  Rutherford's  glittering  eyes  had 
sent  a  flare  of  fear  over  him.  The  impulse  of  it 
had  lifted  him  to  the  back  of  the  horse  and  out 
of  the  danger  zone. 

But  already  he  was  flogging  himself  with  his 
own  contempt.  He  had  given  way  to  panic  be- 
fore a  girl  who  had  been  brought  up  to  despise 
a  quitter.  She  herself  had  nerves  as  steady  as 
chilled  steel.  He  had  seen  her  clench  her  strong 
white  little  teeth  without  a  murmur  through  a 
long  afternoon  of  pain.  Gameness  was  one  of  the 

124 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

fundamentals  of  her  creed,  and  he  had  showed 
the  white  feather.  It  added  to  his  punishment, 
too,  that  he  worshiped  pluck  with  all  the  fervor 
of  one  who  knew  he  had  none.  Courage  seemed 
to  him  the  one  virtue  worth  while;  cowardice 
the  unpardonable  sin.  He  made  no  excuses  for 
himself.  From  his  father  he  inherited  the  fine 
tradition  of  standing  up  to  punishment  to  a 
fighting  finish.  His  mother,  too,  had  been  a 
thoroughbred.  Yet  he  was  a  weakling.  His 
heart  pumped  water  instead  of  blood  whenever 
the  call  to  action  came. 

In  dejection  he  rode  up  the  valley,  following 
the  same  hilly  trail  he  had  taken  two  days  be- 
fore with  Miss  Rutherford.  It  took  him  past 
the  aspen  grove  at  the  mouth  of  the  gulch  which 
led  to  the  Meldrum  place.  Beyond  this  a  few 
hundred  yards  he  left  the  main  road  and  went 
through  the  chaparral  toward  a  small  ranch 
that  nestled  close  to  the  timber.  Beulah  had 
told  him  that  it  belonged  to  an  old  German 
named  Rothgerber  who  had  lived  there  with 
his  wife  ever  since  she  could  remember. 

Rothgerber  was  a  little  wrinkled  old  man 
with  a  strong  South-German  accent.  After 
Beaudry  had  explained  that  he  wanted  board, 
the  rancher  called  his  wife  out  and  the  two 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

jabbered  away  excitedly  in  their  native  tongue. 
The  upshot  of  it  was  that  they  agreed  to  take 
the  windmill  agent  if  he  would  room  in  an  old 
bunkhouse  about  two  hundred  yards  from  the 
main  ranch  building.  This  happened  to  suit 
Roy  exactly  and  he  closed  the  matter  by  pay- 
ing for  a  week  in  advance. 

The  Rothgerbers  were  simple,  unsuspecting 
people  of  a  garrulous  nature.  It  was  easy  for 
Beaudry  to  pump  information  from  them  while 
he  ate  supper.  They  had  seen  nothing  of  any 
stranger  in  the  valley  except  himself,  but  they 
dropped  casually  the  news  that  the  Rutherfords 
had  been  going  in  and  out  of  Chicito  Canon 
a  good  deal  during  the  past  few  days. 

"Chicito  Canon.  That's  a  Mexican  name, 
is  n't  it?  Let's  see.  Just  where  is  this  gulch?" 
asked  Beaudry. 

The  old  German  pointed  out  of  the  window. 
"There  it  iss,  mein  friend.  You  pass  by  on  the 
road  and  there  iss  no  way  in  —  no  arroyo,  no 
gulch,  no  noddings  but  aspens.  But  there  iss, 
shust  the  same,  a  trail.  Through  my  pasture 
it  leads." 

"Anybody  live  up  Chicito?  I  want  everybody 
in  the  park  to  get  a  chance  to  buy  a  Dynamo 
Aermotor  before  I  leave." 

126 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"A  man  named  Meldrum.  My  advice  iss  — 
let  him  alone." 

"Why?" 

Rothgerber  shook  a  pudgy  forefinger  in  the 
air.  "Mein  friend  —  listen.  You  are  a  stranger 
hi  Huerfano  Park.  Gut.  But  do  not  ask  ques- 
tions about  those  who  lif  here.  Me,  I  am  an 
honest  man.  I  keep  the  law.  Also  I  mind  my 
own  pusiness.  So  it  iss  with  many.  But  there 
are  others  —  mind,  I  gif  them  no  names,  but  —  " 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  threw  out  his 
hands,  palm  up.  "Well,  the  less  said  the  petter. 
If  I  keep  my  tongue  still,  I  do  not  talk  myself 
into  trouble.  Not  so,  Berta?" 

The  pippin-cheeked  little  woman  nodded  her 
head  sagely. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  days  Roy  rode 
to  and  fro  over  the  park  trying  to  sell  his  wind- 
mill to  the  ranchers.  He  secured  two  orders 
and  the  tentative  promise  of  others.  But  he 
gained  no  clue  as  to  the  place  where  Dingwell 
was  hidden.  His  intuition  told  him  that  the 
trail  up  Chicito  Canon  would  lead  him  to  the 
captive  cattleman.  Twice  he  skirted  the  dark 
gash  of  the  ravine  at  the  back  of  the  pasture, 
but  each  time  his  heart  failed  at  the  plunge 
into  its  unknown  dangers.  The  first  time  he 

127 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

persuaded  himself  that  he  had  better  make  the 
attempt  at  night,  but  when  he  stood  on  the 
brink  hi  the  darkness  the  gulf  at  his  feet  looked 
like  a  veritable  descent  into  Avernus.  If  he 
should  be  caught  down  here,  his  fate  would  be 
sealed.  What  Meldrum  and  Tighe  would  do 
to  a  spy  was  not  a  matter  of  conjecture.  The 
thought  of  it  brought  goose-quills  to  his  flesh 
and  tiny  beads  of  perspiration  to  his  forehead. 

Still,  the  peril  had  to  be  faced.  He  decided 
to  go  up  the  canon  in  the  early  morning  before 
the  travel  of  the  day  had  begun.  The  night 
before  he  made  the  venture  he  prepared  an 
alibi  by  telling  Mrs.  Rothgerber  that  he  would 
not  come  to  breakfast,  as  he  wanted  to  get  an 
early  start  for  his  canvassing.  The  little  Ger- 
man woman  bustled  about  and  wrapped  up  for 
him  a  cold  lunch  to  eat  at  his  cabin  in  the 
morning.  She  liked  this  quiet,  good-looking 
young  man  whose  smile  was  warm  for  a  woman 
almost  old  enough  to  be  his  grandmother.  It 
was  not  often  she  met  any  one  with  the  charm- 
ing deference  he  showed  her.  Somehow  he  re- 
minded her  of  her  own  Hans,  who  had  died 
from  the  kick  of  a  horse  ten  years  since. 

Roy  slept  in  broken  cat-naps  full  of  fearful 
dreams,  from  which  he  woke  in  terror  under 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

the  impression  that  he  was  struggling  helplessly 
in  the  net  of  a  great  spider  which  had  the  cruel, 
bloodless  face  of  Tighe.  It  was  three  o'clock 
when  he  rose  and  began  to  dress.  He  slipped 
out  of  the  cabin  into  the  wet  pasture.  His  legs 
were  -sopping  wet  from  the  long  grass  through 
which  he  strode  to  the  edge  of  the  gulch.  On  a 
flat  boulder  he  sat  shivering  in  the  darkness 
while  he  waited  for  the  first  gray  streaks  of 
light  to  sift  into  the  dun  sky. 

In  the  dim  dawn  he  stumbled  uncertainly 
down  the  trail  into  the  canon,  the  bottom  of 
which  was  still  black  as  night  from  a  heavy 
growth  of  young  aspens  that  shut  out  the  light. 
There  was  a  fairly  well-worn  path  leading  up 
the  gulch,  so  that  he  could  grope  his  way  for- 
ward slowly.  His  feet  moved  reluctantly.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  his  nerves,  his  brain,  and 
even  his  muscles  were  hi  revolt  against  the 
moral  compulsion  that  drove  him  on.  He  could 
feel  his  heart  beating  against  his  ribs.  Every 
sound  startled  him.  The  still  darkness  took 
him  by  the  throat.  Doggedly  he  fought  against 
the  panic  impulse  to  turn  and  fly. 

If  he  quit  now,  he  told  himself,  he  could  never 
hold  his  self-respect.  He  thought  of  all  those 
who  had  come  into  his  life  in  connection  with 

129 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

the  Big  Creek  country  trouble.  His  father,  his 
mother,  Dave  Dingwell,  Pat  Ryan,  Jess  Tighe, 
the  whole  Rutherford  clan,  including  Beulah! 
One  quality  they  all  had  in  common,  the  game- 
ness  to  see  out  to  a  finish  anything  they  under- 
took. He  could  not  go  through  life  a  confessed 
coward.  The  idea  was  intolerably  humiliating. 
Then,  out  of  the  past,  came  to  him  a  snatch 
of  nonsense  verse:  — 

"  LIT  ole  hawss  an'  liT  ole  cow, 
Amblin'  along  by  the  ole  haymow, 
LiT  ole  hawss  took  a  bite  an'  a  chew, 
'  Durned  if  I  don't,'  says  the  ole  cow,  too." 

So  vivid  was  his  impression  of  the  doggerel 
that  for  an  instant  he  thought  he  heard  the 
sing-song  of  his  father's  tuneless  voice.  In 
sharp,  clean-cut  pictures  his  memory  repro- 
duced the  night  John  Beaudry  had  last  chanted 
the  lullaby  and  that  other  picture  of  the  Homeric 
fight  of  one  man  against  a  dozen.  The  foolish 
words  were  a  bracer  to  him.  He  set  his  teeth 
and  ploughed  forward,  still  with  a  quaking 
soul,  but  with  a  kind  of  despairing  resolution. 

After  a  mile  of  stiff  going,  the  gulch  opened 
to  a  little  valley  on  the  right-hand  side.  On  the 
edge  of  a  pine  grove,  hardly  a  stone's  throw 
from  where  Roy  stood,  a  Mexican  jacal  looked 

130 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

down  into  the  canon.  The  hut  was  a  large  one. 
It  was  built  of  upright  poles  daubed  with  clay. 
Sloping  poles  formed  the  roof,  the  chinks  of 
which  were  waterproofed  with  grass.  A  wolf 
pelt,  nailed  to  the  wall,  was  hanging  up  to  dry. 

He  knew  that  this  was  the  home  of  Meldrum, 
the  ex-convict. 

Beaudry  followed  a  bed  of  boulders  that 
straggled  toward  the  pine  grove.  It  was  light 
enough  now,  and  he  had  to  move  with  caution 
so  as  to  take  advantage  of  all  the  cover  he  could 
find.  Once  in  the  grove,  he  crawled  from  tree  to 
tree.  The  distance  from  the  nearest  pine  to  the 
jacal  was  about  thirty  feet.  A  clump  of  cholla 
grew  thick  just  outside  the  window.  Roy 
crouched  behind  the  trunk  for  several  minutes 
before  he  could  bring  himself  to  take  the  chance 
of  covering  that  last  ten  yards.  But  every  min- 
ute it  was  getting  lighter.  Every  minute  in- 
creased the  likelihood  of  detection.  He  crept 
fearfully  to  the  hut,  huddled  behind  the  cactus, 
and  looked  into  the  window. 

A  heavy-set  man,  with  the  muscle-bound 
shoulders  of  an  ape,  was  lighting  a  fire  in  the 
stove.  At  the  table,  his  thumbs  hitched  in  a 
sagging  revolver  belt,  sat  Ned  Rutherford.  The 
third  person  in  the  room  lay  stretched  at  supple 

131 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

ease  on  a  bed  to  one  of  the  posts  of  which  his 
right  leg  was  bound.  He  was  reading  a  news- 
paper. 

"Get  a  move  on  you,  Meldrum,"  young 
Rutherford  said  jauntily,  with  an  eye  on  his 
prisoner  to  see  how  he  took  it.  "I've  got  inside 
information  that  I  need  some  hot  cakes,  a  few 
slices  of  bacon,  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  How  about 
it,  Dave?  Won't  you  order  breakfast,  too?" 

The  man  on  the  bed  shook  his  head  indiffer- 
ently. "Me,  I'm  taking  the  fast  cure.  I  been 
reading  that  we  all  eat  too  much,  anyhow. 
What's  the  use  of  stuffing  —  gets  yore  system 
all  clogged  up.  Now,  take  Edison  —  he  don't 
eat  but  a  handful  of  rice  a  day." 

"That's  one  handful  more  than  you  been 
eating  for  the  past  three  days.  Better  come 
through  with  what  we  want  to  know.  This 
thing  ain't  going  to  get  any  better  for  you.  A 
man  has  got  to  eat  to  live." 

"I'm  trying  out  another  theory.  Tell  you- 
all  about  how  it  works  in  a  week  or  so.  I  reckon 
after  a  time  I'll  get  real  hungry,  but  it  don't 
seem  like  I  could  relish  any  chuck  yet."  The 
cattleman  fell  to  perusing  his  paper  once  more. 

Royal  Beaudry  had  never  met  his  father's 
friend,  Dave  Dingwell,  but  he  needed  no  intro- 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

duction  to  this  brown-faced  man  who  mocked 
his  guard  with  such  smiling  hardihood.  They 
were  trying  to  starve  the  secret  out  of  him. 
Already  his  cheek  showed  thin  and  gaunt,  dark 
circles  shadowed  the  eyes.  The  man,  no  doubt, 
was  suffering  greatly,  yet  his  manner  gave  no 
sign  of  it.  He  might  not  be  master  of  his  fate; 
at  least,  he  was  very  much  the  captain  of  his 
soul.  Pat  Ryan  had  described  him  in  a  sentence. 
"One  hundred  and  ninety  pounds  of  divil,  and 
ivery  ounce  of  ivery  pound  true  gold."  There 
could  not  be  another  man  in  the  Big  Creek 
country  that  this  description  fitted  as  well  as 
it  did  this  starving,  jocund  dare-devil  on  the 
bed. 

The  savory  odor  of  bacon  and  of  coffee  came 
through  the  open  window  to  Beaudry  where  he 
crouched  in  the  chaparral.  He  heard  Meldrum's 
brusque  "Come  and  get  it,"  and  the  sound  of 
the  two  men  drawing  up  their  chairs  to  the 
table. 

"What's  the  use  of  being  obstinate,  Dave?" 
presently  asked  Rutherford  from  amid  a  pleas- 
ant chink  of  tin  cups,  knives,  and  forks.  "I'd 
a  heap  rather  treat  you  like  a  white  man.  This 
'Pache  business  does  n't  make  a  hit  with  me. 
But  I'm  obeying  orders.  Anyhow,  it's  up  to 

133 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

you.  The  chuck-wagon  is  ready  for  you  when- 
ever you  say  the  word." 

"  I  don't  reckon  I  '11  say  it,  Ned.  Eating  is  just 
a  habit.  One  man  wants  his  eggs  sunny  side 
up;  another  is  strong  for  them  hard-boiled.  But 
eggs  is  eggs.  When  Dan  went  visitin'  at  Santa 
Fe,  he  likely  changed  his  diet.  For  two  or  three 
days  he  probably  did  n't  like  the  grub,  then  — " 

With  a  raucous  curse  the  former  convict 
swung  round  on  him.  A  revolver  seemed  to 
jump  to  his  hand,  but  before  he  could  fire, 
young  Rutherford  was  hanging  to  his  wrist. 

"Don't  you,  Dan.  Don't  you,"  warned  Ned. 

Slowly  Meldrum's  eyes  lost  their  savage 
glare.  "One  o'  these  days  I'll  pump  lead  into 
him  unless  he  clamps  that  mouth  of  his'n.  I 
won't  stand  for  it."  His  voice  trailed  into  a 
string  of  oaths. 

Apparently  his  host's  fury  at  this  reference 
to  his  convict  days  did  not  disturb  in  the  least 
the  man  on  the  bed.  His  good-natured  drawl 
grew  slightly  more  pronounced.  "Wall  yore 
eyes  and  wave  yore  tail  all  you've  a  mind  to, 
Dan.  I  was  certainly  some  indiscreet  reminding 
you  of  those  days  when  you  was  a  guest  of  the 
Government." 

"That's  enough,"  growled  Meldrum,  slam- 
134 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

ming  his  big  fist  down  on  the  table  so  that  the 
tinware  jumped. 

"Sure  it's  enough.  Too  much.  Howcome  I 
to  be  so  forgetful?  If  I'd  wore  a  uniform  two 
years  for  rustling  other  folks'  calves,  I  reckon  I 
would  n't  thank  a  guy  — " 

But  Meldrum  had  heard  all  he  could  stand. 
He  had  to  do  murder  or  get  out.  He  slammed 
the  coffee-pot  down  on  the  floor  and  bolted  out 
of  the  open  door.  His  arms  whirled  in  violent 
gestures  as  he  strode  away.  An  unbroken  stream 
of  profanity  floated  back  to  mark  his  anabasis. 

Meldrum  did  not  once  look  round  as  he  went 
on  his  explosive  way  to  the  gulch,  but  Roy 
Beaudry  crouched  lower  behind  the  cactus  until 
the  man  had  disappeared.  Then  he  crawled 
back  to  the  grove,  slipped  through  it,  and  crept 
to  the  shelter  of  the  boulder  bed. 

It  would  not  do  for  him  to  return  down  the 
canon  during  daylight,  for  fear  he  might  meet 
one  of  the  Rutherf  ords  coming  to  relieve  Ned.  He 
passed  from  one  boulder  to  another,  always  work- 
ing up  toward  the  wall  of  the  gulch.  Behind  a 
big  piece  of  sandstone  shaped  like  a  flatiron  he 
lay  down  and  waited  for  the  hours  to  pass. 

It  was  twilight  when  he  stole  down  to  the 
trail  and  began  his  return  journey. 


Chapter  X 
Dave  Takes  a  Ride 

DAVE  DINGWELL  had  sauntered  care- 
lessly out  of  the  Legal  Tender  on  the 
night  of  his  disappearance.  He  was  apparently 
at  perfect  ease  with  a  friendly  world.  But  if 
any  one  had  happened  to  follow  him  out  of  the 
saloon,  he  would  have  seen  an  odd  change  in 
the  ranchman.  He  slid  swiftly  along  the  wall 
of  the  building  until  he  had  melted  into  the 
shadows  of  darkness.  His  eyes  searched  the 
neighborhood  for  lurking  figures  while  he 
crouched  behind  the  trunk  of  a  cotton  wood. 
Every  nerve  of  the  man  was  alert,  every  muscle 
ready  for  action.  One  brown  hand  lingered 
affectionately  close  to  the  butt  of  his  revolver. 

He  had  come  out  of  the  front  door  of  the 
gambling-house  because  he  knew  the  Ruther- 
fords  would  expect  him,  in  the  exercise  of 
ordinary  common  sense,  to  leave  by  the  rear 
exit.  That  he  would  be  watched  was  certain. 
Therefore,  he  had  done  the  unexpected  and 
walked  boldly  out  through  the  swinging  doors. 

As  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  dark- 
136 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

ness,  he  made  out  a  horse  in  the  clump  of  trees 
about  twenty  yards  to  the  left.  Whether  it  was 
Teddy  he  could  not  be  sure,  but  there  was  no 
time  to  lose.  Already  a  signal  whistle  had  shrilled 
out  from  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Dave  knew 
this  was  to  warn  the  guards  at  the  rear  of  the 
Legal  Tender  that  their  prey  was  in  the  open. 

He  made  a  dash  for  the  tree  clump,  but  al- 
most as  he  reached  it,  he  swung  to  the  left  and 
circled  the  small  grove  so  as  to  enter  it  from  the 
other  side.  As  he  expected,  a  man  whirled  to 
meet  him.  The  unforeseen  tactics  of  Dingwell 
had  interfered  with  the  ambush. 

Dave  catapulted  into  him  head  first  and  the 
two  went  down  together.  Before  Dingwell 
could  grip  the  throat  of  the  man  beneath  him, 
a  second  body  hurled  itself  through  space  at 
the  cattleman.  The  attacked  man  flattened 
under  the  weight  crushing  him,  but  his  right 
arm  swept  around  and  embraced  the  neck  of  his 
second  assailant.  He  flexed  his  powerful  fore- 
arm so  as  to  crush  as  in  a  vice  the  throat  of  his 
foe  between  it  and  the  hard  biceps.  The  breath 
of  the  first  man  had  for  the  moment  been 
knocked  out  of  him  and  he  was  temporarily 
not  in  the  fight.  The  ranchman  gave  his  full 
attention  to  the  other. 

137 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

The  fellow  struggled  savagely.  He  had  a  gun 
in  his  right  hand,  but  the  fingers  of  Dave's  left 
had  closed  upon  the  wrist  above.  Stertorous 
breathing  gave  testimony  that  the  gunman  was 
in  trouble.  In  spite  of  his  efforts  to  break  the 
hold  that  kept  his  head  in  chancery,  the  muscles 
of  the  arm  tightened  round  his  neck  like  steel 
ropes  drawn  taut.  He  groaned,  sighed  in  a  rag- 
ged expulsion  of  breath,  and  suddenly  collapsed. 

Before  he  relaxed  his  muscles,  Dingwell  made 
sure  that  the  surrender  was  a  genuine  one.  His 
left  hand  slid  down  and  removed  the  revolver 
from  the  nerveless  fingers.  The  barrel  of  it  was 
jammed  against  the  head  of  the  man  above  him 
while  the  rancher  freed  himself  from  the  weight 
of  the  body.  Slowly  the  cattleman  got  to  his 
feet. 

Vaguely  he  had  been  aware  already  that  men 
were  running  toward  the  tree  clump.  Now  he 
heard  the  padding  of  their  feet  close  at  hand. 
He  ran  to  the  horse  and  flung  himself  into  the 
saddle,  but  before  the  animal  had  moved  two 
steps  some  one  had  it  by  the  bridle.  Another 
man  caught  Dingwell  by  the  arm  and  dragged 
him  from  the  saddle.  Before  Dave  could  scram- 
ble to  his  feet  again,  something  heavy  fell  upon 
his  head  and  shook  him  to  the  heels.  A  thou- 

188 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

sand  lights  flashed  in  zigzags  before  his  eyes. 
He  sank  back  into  unconsciousness. 

The  cowman  returned  to  a  world  of  darkness 
out  of  which  voices  came  as  from  a  distance 
hazily.  A  groan  prefaced  his  arrival. 

"Dave's  waking  up,"  one  of  the  far  voices 
said. 

"Sure.  When  you  tap  his  haid  with  a  six- 
gun,  you're  liable  to  need  repairs  on  the  gun," 
a  second  answered. 

The  next  words  came  to  Dingwell  more  dis- 
tinctly. He  recognized  the  speaker  as  Hal 
Rutherford  of  the  horse  ranch. 

"Too  bad  the  boy  had  to  hand  you  that 
crack,  Dave.  You're  such  a  bear  for  fighting 
a  man  can't  take  any  chances.  Glad  he  did  n't 
bust  your  haid  wide  open." 

"Sure  he  did  n't?  "  asked  the  injured  man.  "I 
feel  like  I  got  to  hold  it  on  tight  so  as  to  keep 
the  blamed  thing  from  flying  into  fifty  pieces." 

"Sorry.  We'll  take  you  to  a  doc  and  have  it 
fixed  up.  Then  we'll  all  go  have  a  drunk. 
That'll  fix  you." 

"Business  first,"  cut  in  Buck  Rutherford. 

"That's  right,  Dave,"  agreed  the  owner  of 
the  horse  ranch.  "How  about  that  gunnysack? 
Where  did  you  hide  it?" 

139 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Dingwell  played  for  time.  He  had  not  the 
least  intention  of  telling,  but  if  he  held  the 
enemy  in  parley  some  of  his  friends  might  pass 
that  way. 

"What  gunnysack,  Hal?  Jee-rusalem,  how 
my  head  aches!"  He  held  his  hands  to  his  tem- 
ples and  groaned  again. 

'Your  head  will  mend  —  if  we  don't  have 
to  give  it  another  crack,"  Buck  told  him 
grimly.  "Get  busy,  Dave.  We  want  that  gold 
—  pronto.  Where  did  you  put  it?" 

"Where  did  I  put  it?  That  willing  lad  of 
yours  has  plumb  knocked  the  answer  out  of  my 
noodle.  Maybe  you're  thinking  of  some  one 
else,  Buck."  Dingwell  looked  up  at  him  with 
an  innocent,  bland  smile. 

"Come  through,"  ordered  Buck  with  an  oath. 

The  cattleman  treated  them  to  another  dis- 
mal groan.  "Gee!  I  feel  like  the  day  after 
Christmas.  Was  it  a  cannon  the  kid  hit  me 
with?" 

Meldrum  pushed  his  ugly  phiz  to  the  front. 
"Don't  monkey  away  any  time,  boys.  String 
him  to  one  of  these  cottonwoods  till  he  spits 
out  what  we  want." 

"Was  it  while  you  was  visiting  up  at  Santa 
Fe  you  learnt  that  habit  of  seeing  yore  neigh- 

140 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

bors  hanged,  Dan?"  drawled  Dingwell  in  a 
voice  of  gentle  irony. 

Furious  at  this  cool  reference  to  his  peniten- 
tiary days,  Meldrum  kicked  their  captive  in 
the  ribs.  Hal  Rutherford,  his  eyes  blazing, 
caught  the  former  convict  by  the  throat. 

"Do  that  again  and  I'll  hang  yore  hide  up  to 
dry."  He  shook  Meldrum  as  if  he  were  a  child, 
then  flung  the  gasping  man  away.  "I'll  show 
you  who's  boss  of  this  rodeo,  by  gum!" 

Meldrum  had  several  notches  on  his  gun. 
He  was,  too,  a  rough-and-tumble  fighter  with 
his  hands.  But  Hal  Rutherford  was  one  man 
he  knew  better  than  to  tackle.  He  fell  back, 
growling  threats  in  his  throat. 

Meanwhile  Dave  was  making  discoveries. 
One  was  that  the  first  two  men  who  had  at- 
tacked him  were  the  gamblers  he  had  driven 
from  the  Legal  Tender  earlier  in  the  evening. 
The  next  was  that  Buck  Rutherford  was  send- 
ing the  professional  tinhorns  about  then*  busi- 
ness. 

"Git!"  ordered  the  big  rancher.  "And  keep 
gitting  till  you've  crossed  the  border.  Don't 
look  back  any.  Jest  burn  the  wind.  Adios" 

"They  meant  to  gun  you,  Dave,"  guessed 
the  owner  of  the  horse  ranch.  "I  reckon  they 

141 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

dare  n't  shoot  with  me  loafing  there  across  the 
road.  You  kinder  disarranged  their  plans  some 
more  by  dropping  in  at  their  back  door.  Looks 
like  you  'd  'a5  rumpled  up  their  hair  a  few  if  you 
had  n't  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  make  a  get- 
away. Which  brings  us  back  to  the  previous 
question.  The  unanimous  sense  of  the  meeting 
is  that  you  come  through  with  some  informa- 
tion, Dave.  Where  is  that  gunnysack?" 

Dave,  still  sitting  on  the  ground,  leaned  his 
back  against  a  tree  and  grinned  amiably  at  his 
questioner.  "Sounds  like  you-all  been  to  school 
to  a  parrot.  You  must  'a'  quituated  after  you 
learned  one  sentence." 

"We're  waiting  for  an  answer,  Dave." 

The  cool,  steady  eyes  of  Dingwell  met  the 
imperious  ones  of  the  other  man  in  a  long  even 
gaze.  "Nothing  doing,  Hal." 

"Even  split,  Dave.   Fifty-fifty." 

The  sitting  man  shook  his  head.  "I'll  split 
the  reward  with  you  when  I  get  it.  The  sack 
goes  back  to  the  express  company." 

"We'll  see  about  that."  Rutherford  turned 
to  his  son  and  gave  brisk  orders.  "Bring  up  the 
horses.  We'll  get  out  of  here.  You  ride  with 
me,  Jeff.  We '11  take  care  of  Dingwell.  The  rest 
of  you  scatter.  We're  going  back  to  the  park." 

142 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

The  Rutherfords  and  their  captive  followed 
no  main  road,  but  cut  across  country  in  a  direc- 
tion where  they  would  be  less  likely  to  meet 
travelers.  It  was  a  land  of  mesquite  and  prickly 
pear.  The  sting  of  the  cactus  bit  home  in  the 
darkness  as  its  claws  clutched  at  the  riders 
winding  their  slow  way  through  the  chaparral. 

Gray  day  was  dawning  when  they  crossed 
the  Creosote  Flats  and  were  seen  by  a  sheep- 
herder  at  a  distance.  The  sun  was  high  in  the 
heavens  before  they  reached  the  defile  which 
served  as  a  gateway  between  the  foothills  and 
the  range  beyond.  It  had  passed  the  meridian 
by  the  time  they  were  among  the  summits 
where  they  could  look  back  upon  rounded  hills 
numberless  as  the  billows  of  a  sea.  Deeper  and 
always  deeper  they  plunged  into  the  maze  of 
canons  which  gashed  into  the  saddles  between 
the  peaks.  Blue-tinted  dusk  was  enveloping 
the  hills  as  they  dropped  down  through  a 
wooded  ravine  into  Huerfano  Park. 

"Home  soon,"  Dave  suggested  cheerfully  to 
his  captors.  "I  sure  am  hungry  enough  to  eat 
a  government  mailsack.  A  flank  steak  would 
make  a  big  hit  with  me." 

Jeff  looked  at  him  in  the  dour,  black  Ruther- 
ford way.  "This  is  no  picnic,  you'll  find." 

143 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Not  to  you,  but  it's  a  great  vacation  for  me. 
I  feel  a  hundred  per  cent  better  since  I  got  up 
into  all  this  ozone  and  scenery."  Dingwell 
assured  him  hardily.  "A  man  ought  to  take  a 
trip  like  this  every  once  in  a  while.  It's  great 
for  what  ails  him." 

Young  Rutherford  grunted  sulkily.  Their 
prisoner  was  the  coolest  customer  he  had  ever 
met.  The  man  was  no  fool.  He  must  know  he 
was  in  peril,  but  his  debonair,  smiling  insou- 
ciance never  left  him  for  a  moment.  He  was  grit 
clear  through. 


Chapter  XI 
Tighe  Weaves  his  Web  Tighter 

THE  hooded  eyes  of  Jess  Tighe  slanted 
across  the  table  at  his  visitor.  Not  humor 
but  mordant  irony  had  given  birth  to  the  sar- 
donic smile  on  his  thin,  bloodless  lips. 

"I  reckon  you'll  be  glad  to  know  that  you've 
been  entertaining  an  angel  unawares,  Hal,"  he 
jeered.  "I've  been  looking  up  your  handsome 
young  friend,  and  I  can  tell  you  what  the  'R.B.5 
in  his  hat  stands  for  in  case  you  would  be  inter- 
ested to  know." 

The  owner  of  the  horse  ranch  gave  a  little 
nod.  "Unload  your  information,  Jess." 

Tighe  leaned  forward  for  emphasis  and  bared 
his  teeth.  If  ever  malevolent  hate  was  written 
on  a  face  it  found  expression  on  his  now. 

"'R.  B.'  stands  for  Royal  Beaudry." 

Rutherford  flashed  a  question  at  him  from 
startled  eyes.  He  waited  for  the  other  man  to 
continue. 

"You  remember  the  day  we  put  John  Beau- 
dry  out  of  business?"  asked  Tighe. 

"Yes.  Go  on."  Hal  Rutherford  was  not 
145 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

proud  of  that  episode.  In  the  main  he  had 
fought  fair,  even  though  he  had  been  outside 
the  law.  But  on  the  day  he  had  avenged  the 
death  of  his  brother  Anson,  the  feud  between 
him  and  the  sheriff  had  degenerated  to  murder. 
A  hundred  times  since  he  had  wished  that  he 
had  gone  to  meet  the  officer  alone. 

"He  had  his  kid  with  him.  Afterward  they 
shipped  hun  out  of  the  country  to  an  aunt  in 
Denver.  He  went  to  school  there.  Well,  I've 
had  a  little  sleuthing  done." 

"And  you've  found  out  — ?" 

"What  I've  told  you." 

"How?" 

"He  said  his  name  was  Cherokee  Street,  but 
Jeff  told  me  he  did  n't  act  like  he  believed  him- 
self. When  yore  girl  remembered  there  was  a 
street  of  that  name  in  Denver,  Mr.  Cherokee 
Street  was  plumb  rattled.  He  seen  he'd  made 
a  break.  Well,  you  saw  that  snapshot  Beulah 
took  of  him  and  me  on  the  porch.  I  sent  it  to  a 
detective  agency  in  Denver  with  orders  to  find 
out  the  name  of  the  man  that  photo  fitted.  My 
idea  was  for  the  manager  to  send  a  man  to  the 
teachers  of  the  high  schools,  beginning  with  the 
school  nearest  Cherokee  Street.  He  done  it. 
The  third  schoolmarm  took  one  look  at  the 

146 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

picture  and  said  the  young  fellow  was  Royal 
Beaudry.  She  had  taught  him  German  two 
years.  That's  howcome  I  to  know  what  that 
'R.B.'  in  the  hat  stands  for." 

"Perhaps  it  is  some  other  Beaudry." 

"Take  another  guess,"  retorted  the  cripple 
scornfully.  "Right  off  when  I  clapped  eyes  on 
him,  I  knew  he  reminded  me  of  somebody.  I 
know  now  who  it  was." 

"But  what's  he  doing  up  here?"  asked  the 
big  man. 

The  hawk  eyes  of  Tighe  glittered.  "What  do 
you  reckon  the  son  of  John  Beaudry  would  be 
doing  here?"  He  answered  his  own  question 
with  bitter  animosity.  "He's  gathering  evi- 
dence to  send  Hal  Rutherford  and  Jess  Tighe 
to  the  penitentiary.  That's  what  he's  doing." 

Rutherford  nodded.  "Sure.  What  else  would 
he  be  doing  if  he  is  a  chip  of  the  old  block? 
That's  where  his  father's  son  ought  to  put  us 
if  he  can." 

Tighe  beat  his  fist  on  the  table,  his  face  a  map 
of  appalling  fury  and  hate.  "Let  him  go  to  it, 
then.  I've  been  a  cripple  seventeen  years  be- 
cause Beaudry  shot  me  up.  By  God!  I'll  gun 
his  son  inside  of  twenty-four  hours.  I'll  stomp 
him  off'n  the  map  like  he  was  a  rattlesnake.'* 

147 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"No,"  vetoed  Rutherford  curtly. 

"What!  What's  that  you  say?"  snarled  the 
other. 

"I  say  he'll  get  a  run  for  his  money.  If 
there's  any  killing  to  be  done,  it  will  be  in  fair 
fight." 

"What's  ailing  you?"  sneered  Tighe.  "Get- 
ting soft  in  your  upper  story?  Mean  to  lie  down 
and  let  that  kid  run  you  through  to  the  pen  like 
his  father  did  Dan  Meldrum?" 

"Not  in  a  thousand  years,"  came  back 
Rutherford.  "If  he  wants  war,  he  gets  it.  But 
I'll  not  stand  for  any  killing  from  ambush,  and 
no  killing  of  any  kind  unless  it  has  to  be. 
Understand?" 

"That  sounds  to  me,"  purred  the  smaller 
man  in  the  Western  slang  that  phrased  incredu- 
lity. Then,  suddenly,  he  foamed  at  the  mouth. 
"Keep  out  of  this  if  you're  squeamish.  Let  me 
play  out  the  hand.  I'll  bump  him  off  pronto." 

"No,  Jess." 

"What  do  you  think  I  am?"  screamed  Tighe. 
"Seventeen  years  I've  been  hog-tied  to  this 
house  because  of  Beaudry.  Think  I'm  going  to 
miss  my  chance  now?  If  he  was  Moody  and 
Sankey  rolled  into  one,  I'd  go  through  with  it. 
And  what  is  he  —  a  spy  come  up  here  to  gather 

148 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

evidence  against  you  and  me!  Did  n't  he  creep 
into  your  house  so  as  to  sell  you  out  when  he  got 
the  goods?  Has  n't  he  lied  from  start  to  finish?  " 

"Maybe  so.  But  he  has  no  proof  against  us 
yet.  We'll  kick  him  out  of  the  park.  I'm  not 
going  to  have  his  blood  on  my  conscience. 
That's  flat,  Jess." 

The  eyes  in  the  bloodless  face  of  the  other 
man  glittered,  but  he  put  a  curb  on  his  passion. 
"What  about  me,  Hal?  I've  waited  half  a  life- 
time and  now  my  chance  has  come.  Have  you 
forgot  who  made  me  the  misshaped  thing  I  am? 
I  have  n't.  I'll  go  through  hell  to  fix  Beaudry's 
cub  the  way  he  did  me."  His  voice  shook  from 
the  bitter  intensity  of  his  feeling. 

Rutherford  paced  up  and  down  the  room  in 
a  stress  of  sentiency.  "No,  Jess.  I  know  just 
how  you  feel,  but  I'm  going  to  give  this  kid 
his  chance.  We  gunned  Beaudry  because  he 
would  n't  let  us  alone.  Either  he  or  a  lot  of  us 
had  to  go.  But  I'll  say  this.  I  never  was  satis- 
fied with  the  way  we  did  it.  When  Jack  Beaudry 
shot  you  up,  he  was  fighting  for  his  life.  We 
attacked  him.  You  got  no  right  to  hold  it 
against  his  son." 

"I  don't  ask  you  to  come  in.  I'll  fix  his  clock 
all  right." 

149 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Nothing  doing.  I  won't  have  it."  Ruther- 
ford, by  a  stroke  of  strategy,  carried  the  war 
into  the  country  of  the  other.  "I  gave  way  to 
you  about  Dingwell,  though  I  hated  to  try  that 
Indian  stuff  on  him.  He's  a  white  man.  I've 
always  liked  him.  It's  a  rotten  business." 

"What  else  can  you  do?  We  daren't  turn 
him  loose.  You  don't  want  to  gun  him.  There 
is  nothing  left  but  to  tighten  the  thumb- 


screws." 


"It  won't  do  any  good,"  protested  the  big 
man  with  a  frown.  "He's  game.  He'll  go 
through.  .  .  .  And  if  it  comes  to  a  showdown,  I 
won't  have  him  starved  to  death." 

Tighe  looked  at  him  through  half -hooded, 
cruel  eyes.  "He'll  weaken.  Another  day  or 
two  will  do  it.  Don't  worry  about  Dingwell." 

"There's  not  a  yellow  streak  in  him.  You 
have  n't  a  chance  to  make  him  quit."  Ruther- 
ford took  another  turn  up  and  down  the  room 
diagonally.  "I  don't  like  this  way  of  fighting. 
It's  —  damnable,  man!  I  won't  have  any 
harm  come  to  Dave  or  to  the  kid  either.  I 
stand  pat  on  that,  Jess." 

The  man  with  the  crutches  swallowed  hard. 
His  Adam's  apple  moved  up  and  down  like  an 
agitated  thermometer.  When  he  spoke  it  was 

150 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

in  a  smooth,  oily  voice  of  submission,  but 
Rutherford  noticed  that  the  rapacious  eyes  were 
hooded. 

"What  you  say  goes,  Hal.  You're  boss  of 
this  round-up.  I  was  jest  telling  you  how  it 
looked  to  me." 

"Sure.  That's  all  right,  Jess.  But  you  want 
to  remember  that  public  sentiment  is  against  us. 
We've  pretty  near  gone  our  limit  up  here.  If 
there  was  no  other  reason  but  that,  it  would  be 
enough  to  make  us  let  this  young  fellow  alone. 
We  can't  afford  a  killing  in  the  park  now." 

Tighe  assented,  almost  with  servility.  But 
the  cattleman  carried  away  with  him  a  convic- 
tion that  the  man  had  yielded  too  easily,  that 
his  restless  brain  would  go  on  planning  destruc- 
tion for  young  Beaudry  just  the  same. 

He  was  on  his  way  up  Chicito  Canon  and  he 
stopped  at  Rothgerber's  ranch  to  see  Beaudry. 
The  young  man  was  not  at  home. 

"He  start  early  this  morning  to  canfass  for 
his  vindmill,"  the  old  German  explained. 

After  a  moment's  thought  Rutherford  left  a 
message.  "Tell  him  it  is  n't  safe  for  him  to  stay 
in  the  park;  that  certain  parties  know  who 
'R.B.'  is  and  will  sure  act  on  that  information. 
Say  I  said  for  him  to  come  and  see  me  as  soon 

151 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

as  he  gets  back.  Understand?  Right  away  when 
he  reaches  here." 

The  owner  of  the  horse  ranch  left  his  mount 
in  the  Rothgerber  corral  and  passed  through 
the  pasture  on  foot  to  Chicito.  Half  an  hour 
later  he  dropped  into  the  jacal  of  Meldrum. 

He  found  the  indomitable  Dingwell  again 
quizzing  Meldrum  about  his  residence  at  Santa 
Fe  during  the  days  he  wore  a  striped  uniform. 
The  former  convict  was  grinding  his  teeth  with 
fury. 

"I  reckon  you  won't  meet  many  old  friends 
when  you  go  back  this  time,  Dan.  Maybe 
there  will  be  one  or  two  old-timers  that  will 
know  you,  but  it  won't  be  long  before  you 
make  acquaintances,"  Dave  consoled  him. 

"Shut  up,  or  I'll  pump  lead  into  you,"  he 
warned  hoarsely. 

The  cattleman  on  the  bed  shook  his  head. 
"You'd  like  to  fill  me  full  of  buckshot,  but  it 
would  n't  do  at  all,  Dan.  I  'm  the  goose  that 
lays  the  golden  eggs,  in  a  way  of  speaking.  Gun 
me,  and  it's  good-bye  to  that  twenty  thousand 
in  the  gunnysack."  He  turned  cheerfully  to 
Rutherford,  who  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 
"Come  right  in,  Hal.  Glad  to  see  you.  Make 
yourself  at  home." 

152 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"He's  deviling  me  all  the  time,"  Meldrum 
complained  to  the  owner  of  the  horse  ranch.  "I 
ain't  a-going  to  stand  it." 

Rutherford  looked  at  the  prisoner,  a  lean, 
hard-bitten  Westerner  with  muscles  like  steel 
ropes  and  eyes  unblinking  as  a  New  Mexico 
sun.  His  engaging  recklessness  had  long  since 
won  the  liking  of  the  leader  of  the  Huerfano 
Park  outlaws. 

"Don't  bank  on  that  golden  egg  business, 
Dave,"  advised  Rutherford.  "If  you  tempt  the 
boys  enough,  they're  liable  to  forget  it.  You've 
been  behaving  mighty  aggravating  to  Dan." 

"Me!"  Dave  opened  his  eyes  in  surprise. 
"I  was  just  asking  him  how  he'd  like  to  go 
back  to  Santa  Fe  after  you-all  turn  me  loose." 

"We're  not  going  to  turn  you  loose  till  we 
reach  an  agreement.  What's  the  use  of  being 
pigheaded?  We're  looking  for  that  gold  and 
we're  going  to  find  it  mighty  soon.  Now  be 
reasonable." 

"How  do  you  know  you're  going  to  find  it?" 

"Because  we  know  you  could  n't  have  taken 
it  far.  Here's  the  point.  You  had  it  when  Fox 
made  his  getaway.  Beulah  was  right  behind 
you,  so  we  know  you  did  n't  get  a  chance  to 
bury  it  between  there  and  town.  We  covered 

153 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

your  tracks  and  you  did  n't  leave  the  road  in 
that  half-mile.  That  brings  you  as  far  as  Battle 
Butte.  You  had  the  gunnysack  when  you 
crossed  the  bridge.  You  did  n't  have  it  when 
Slim  Sanders  met  you.  So  you  must  have  got 
rid  of  it  in  that  distance  of  less  than  a  quarter 
of  a  mile.  First  off,  I  figured  you  dropped  the 
sack  in  Hague's  alfalfa  field.  But  we  've  tramped 
that  all  over.  It's  not  there.  Did  you  meet 
some  one  and  give  it  to  him?  Or  how  did  you 
get  rid  of  it?" 

"I  ate  it,"  grinned  Dingwell  confidentially. 

"The  boys  are  getting  impatient,  Dave. 
They  don't  like  the  way  you  butted  in." 

"That's  all  right.  You're  responsible  for  my 
safety,  Hal.  I'll  let  you  do  the  worrying." 

"Don't  fool  yourself.  We  can't  keep  you  here 
forever.  We  can't  let  you  go  without  an  agree- 
ment. Figure  out  for  yourself  what's  likely  to 
happen?" 

"Either  my  friends  will  rescue  me,  or  else 
I  '11  escape." 

"Forget  it.  Not  a  chance  of  either."  Ruther- 
ford stopped,  struck  by  an  idea.  "Ever  hear 
of  a  young  fellow  called  Cherokee  Street?" 

"No.  Think  not.  Is  he  a  breed?" 

"White  man."  Rutherford  took  a  chair  close 
154 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

to  Dingwell.  He  leaned  forward  and  asked 
another  question  in  a  low  voice.  "Never  hap- 
pened to  meet  the  son  of  John  Beaudry,  did 
you?" 

Dingwell  looked  at  him  steadily  out  of  nar- 
rowed eyes.  "I  don't  get  you,  Hal.  What  has 
he  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Thought  maybe  you  could  tell  me  that. 
He's  in  the  park  now." 

"In  the  park?" 

"Yes  —  and  Jess  Tighe  knows  it." 

"What's  he  doing  here?" 

But  even  as  he  asked  the  other  man,  Ding- 
well  guessed  the  answer.  Not  an  hour  before  he 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white,  strained  face  at 
the  window.  He  knew  now  whose  face  it  was. 

"He's  spying  on  us  and  sleuthing  for  evi- 
dence to  send  us  to  the  pen.  Think  he'd  be  a 
good  risk  for  an  insurance  company?" 

Dave  thought  fast.  "I  don't  reckon  you're 
right.  I  put  the  kid  through  law  school.  My 
friends  have  likely  sent  him  up  here  to  look 
for  me." 

Rutherford  scoffed.  "  Nothing  to  that.  How 
could  they  know  you  are  here?  We  did  n't 
advertise  it." 

"No-o,  but — "  Dingwell  surrendered  the 
155 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

point  reluctantly.  He  flashed  a  question  at 
Rutherford.  "Tighe  will  murder  him.  That's 
sure.  You  going  to  let  him?" 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it.  I  'm  going  to  send  young 
Beaudry  out  of  the  park." 

"Fine.   Don't  lose  any  time  about  it,  Hal." 

The  Huerfano  Park  rancher  made  one  more 
attempt  to  shake  his  prisoner.  His  dark  eyes 
looked  straight  into  those  of  Dingwell. 

"Old-timer,  what  about  you?  I  ain't  enjoy- 
ing this  any  more  than  you  are.  But  it's  clear 
out  of  my  hands." 

"Then  why  worry?"  asked  Dingwell,  a  little 
grin  on  his  drawn  face. 

"Hell!  What's  the  use  of  asking  that?  I'm 
no  Injun  devil,"  barked  Rutherford  irritably. 

"Turn  me  loose  and  I'll  forget  all  I've  seen. 
I  won't  give  you  the  loot,  but  I  '11  not  be  a  wit- 
ness against  you." 

The  Huerfano  Park  ranchman  shook  his  head. 
"No,  we  want  that  gold,  Dave.  You  butted 
into  our  game  and  we  won't  stand  for  that." 

"I  reckon  we  can't  make  a  deal,  Hal." 

The  haggard  eyes  of  the  starving  man  were 
hard  as  tungsten-washed  steel.  They  did  not 
yield  a  jot. 

A  troubled  frown  dragged  together  the  shaggy 
156 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

eyebrows  of  Rutherford  as  he  snapped  out  his 
ultimatum. 

"I  like  you,  Dave.  Always  have.  But  you 're 
in  one  hell  of  a  hole.  Don't  feed  yourself  any 
fairy  tales.  Your  number  is  chalked  up,  my 
friend.  Unless  you  come  through  with  what 
we  want,  you'll  never  leave  here  alive.  I  can't 
save  you.  There's  only  one  man  can  —  and 
that  is  your  friend  David  Dingwell." 

The  other  man  did  not  bat  an  eyelid.  "Try- 
ing to  pass  the  buck,  Hal?  You  can't  get  away 
with  it  —  not  for  a  minute."  A  gay  little  smile 
of  derision  touched  his  face.  "I'm  in  your 
hands  completely.  I  '11  not  tell  you  a  damn  thing. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  No,  don't 
tell  me  that  Meldrum  and  Tighe  will  do  what 
has  to  be  done.  You're  the  high  mogul  here. 
If  they  kill  me,  Hal  Rutherford  will  be  my 
murderer.  Don't  forget  that  for  a  second." 

Rutherford  carried  home  with  him  a  heavy 
heart.  He  could  see  no  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 
He  knew  that  neither  Meldrum  nor  Tighe  would 
consent  to  let  Dingwell  go  unless  an  agreement 
was  first  reached.  There  was,  too,  the  other 
tangle  involving  young  Beaudry.  Perhaps  he 
also  would  be  obstinate  and  refuse  to  follow 
the  reasonable  course. 

157 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Beulah  met  him  on  the  road.  Before  they 
had  ridden  a  hundred  yards,  her  instinct  told 
her  that  he  was  troubled. 

"What  is  it,  dad?"  she  asked. 

He  compromised  with  himself  and  told  her 
part  of  what  was  worrying  him.  "It's  about 
your  friend  Street.  Jess  had  him  looked  up  in 
Denver.  The  fellow  turns  out  to  be  a  Royal 
Beaudry.  You've  heard  of  a  sheriff  of  that 
name  who  used  to  live  in  this  country?  .  .  . 
Well,  this  is  his  son." 

"What 'she  doing  here?" 

"Trying "to  get  us  into  trouble,  I  reckon.  But 
that  ain't  the  point.  I'm  not  worrying  about 
what  he  can  find  out.  Fact  is  that  Tighe  is 
revengeful.  This  boy's  father  crippled  him.  He 
wants  to  get  even  on  the  young  fellow.  Unless 
Beaudry  leaves  the  park  at  once,  he'll  never 
go.  I  left  word  at  Rothgerber's  for  him  to  come 
down  and  see  me  soon  as  he  gets  home." 

"Will  he  come?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"I  don't  know.  If  not  I'll  go  up  and  fetch 
him.  I  don't  trust  Jess  a  bit.  He '11  strike  soon 
and  hard." 

"Don't  let  him,  dad,"  the  girl  implored. 

The  distressed  eyes  of  the  father  rested  on  her. 
"You  like  this  young  fellow,  honey?"  he  asked. 

158 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

She  flamed.  "I  hate  him.  He  abused  our 
hospitality.  He  lied  to  us  and  spied  on  us.  I 
would  n't  breathe  the  same  air  he  does  if  I 
could  help  it.  But  we  can't  let  him  be  killed 
in  cold  blood." 

"That's  right,  Boots.  Well,  he'll  come  down 
to-day  and  I'll  pack  him  back  to  Battle  Butte. 
Then  we'll  be  shet  of  him." 

Beulah  passed  the  hours  in  a  fever  of  impa- 
tience. She  could  not  keep  her  mind  on  the 
children  she  was  teaching.  She  knew  Tighe. 
The  decision  of  her  father  to  send  Beaudry 
away  would  spur  the  cripple  to  swift  activity. 
Up  at  Rothgerber's  Jess  could  corner  the  man 
and  work  his  vengeance  unhampered.  Why  did 
not  the  spy  come  down  to  the  horse  ranch? 
Was  it  possible  that  his  pride  would  make  him 
neglect  the  warning  her  father  had  left?  Per- 
haps he  would  think  it  only  a  trap  to  catch  him. 

Supper  followed  dinner,  and  still  Beaudry 
had  not  arrived.  From  the  porch  Beulah  peered 
up  the  road  into  the  gathering  darkness.  Her 
father  had  been  called  away.  Her  brothers  were 
not  at  home.  The  girl  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
She  went  to  the  stable  and  saddled  Blacky. 

Five  minutes  later  she  was  flying  up  the  road 
that  led  to  the  Rothgerber  place. 


Chapter  XII 
Stark  Fear 

Beaudry  climbed  the  canon  wall 
to  the  Rothgerber  pasture  he  breathed  a 
deep  sigh  of  relief.  For  many  hours  he  had 
been  under  a  heavy  strain,  nerves  taut  as  fiddle- 
strings.  Fifty  times  his  heart  had  jumped  with 
terror.  But  he  had  done  the  thing  he  had  set 
out  to  do. 

He  had  stiffened  his  flaccid  will  and  spurred 
his  trembling  body  forward.  If  he  had  been 
unable  to  control  his  fear,  at  least  he  had  not 
let  it  master  him.  He  had  found  out  for  Ryan 
where  Dingwell  was  held  prisoner.  It  had  been 
his  intention  to  leave  the  park  as  soon  as  he 
knew  this,  report  the  facts  to  the  friends  of 
Dave,  and  let  them  devise  a  way  of  escape.  He 
had  done  his  full  share.  But  he  could  not  follow 
this  course  now. 

The  need  of  the  cattleman  was  urgent.  Some- 
how it  must  be  met  at  once.  Yet  what  could  he 
do  against  two  armed  men  who  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  shoot  him  down  if  necessary?  There 

160 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

must  be  some  way  of  saving  Dingwell  if  he 
could  only  find  it. 

In  spite  of  his  anxiety,  a  fine  spiritual  exal- 
tation flooded  him.  So  far  he  had  stood  the 
acid  test,  had  come  through  without  dishonor. 
He  might  be  a  coward;  at  least,  he  was  not  a 
quitter.  Plenty  of  men  would  have  done  his 
day's  work  without  a  tremor.  What  brought 
comfort  to  Roy's  soul  was  that  he  had  been 
able  to  do  it  at  all. 

Mrs.  Rothgerber  greeted  him  with  exclama- 
tions of  delight.  The  message  of  Rutherford 
had  frightened  her  even  though  she  did  not 
entirely  understand  it. 

"Hermann  iss  out  looking  for  you.  Mr. 
Rutherford  —  the  one  that  owns  the  horse  ranch 
—  he  wass  here  and  left  a  message  for  you." 

"A  message  for  me!   What  was  it?" 

With  many  an  "Ach!"  she  managed  to  tell 
him. 

The  face  of  her  boarder  went  white.  Since 
Rutherford  was  .warning  him  against  Tighe, 
the  danger  must  be  imminent.  Should  he  go 
down  to  the  horse  ranch  now?  Or  had  he  better 
wait  until  it  was  quite  dark?  While  he  was 
still  debating  this  with  himself,  the  old  German 
came  into  the  house. 

161 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Home,  eh?  Gut,  gut!  They  are  already  yet 
watching  the  road." 

Roy's  throat  choked.   "Who?" 

This  question  Rothgerber  could  not  answer. 
In  the  dusk  he  had  not  recognized  the  men  he 
had  seen.  Moreover,  they  had  ridden  into  the 
brush  to  escape  observation.  Both  of  them  had 
been  armed  with  rifles. 

The  old  woman  started  to  light  a  lamp,  but 
Roy  stopped  her.  "Let's  eat  in  the  dark,"  he 
proposed.  "Then  I'll  slip  out  to  the  bunkhouse 
and  you  can  have  your  light." 

His  voice  shook.  When  he  tried  to  eat,  his 
fingers  could  scarcely  hold  a  knife  and  fork. 
Supper  was  for  him  a  sham.  A  steel  band 
seemed  to  grip  his  throat  and  make  the  swallow- 
ing of  food  impossible.  He  was  as  unnerved  as 
a  condemned  criminal  waiting  for  the  noose. 

After  drinking  a  cup  of  coffee,  he  pushed 
back  his  chair  and  rose. 

"Fetter  stay  with  us,"  urged  the  old  German. 
He  did  not  know  why  this  young  man  was  in 
danger,  but  he  read  in  the  face  the  stark  fear 
of  a  soul  in  travail. 

"No.  I'll  saddle  and  go  down  to  see  Ruther- 
ford. Good-night." 

Roy  went  out  of  the  back  door  and  crept 
162 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

along  the  shadows  of  the  hill.  Beneath  his  foot 
a  dry  twig  snapped.  It  was  enough.  He  fled 
panic-stricken,  pursued  by  all  the  demons  of 
hell  his  fears  could  evoke.  A  deadly,  unnerving 
terror  clutched  at  his  throat.  The  pounding 
blood  seemed  ready  to  burst  the  veins  at  his 
temples. 

The  bunkhouse  loomed  before  him  in  the 
darkness.  As  he  plunged  at  the  door  a  shot 
rang  out.  A  bolt  of  fire  burned  into  his  shoulder. 
He  flung  the  door  open,  slammed  it  shut  behind 
him,  locked  and  bolted  it  almost  with  one  mo- 
tion. For  a  moment  he  leaned  half  swooning 
against  the  jamb,  sick  through  and  through  at 
the  peril  he  had  just  escaped. 

But  had  he  escaped  it?  Would  they  not  break 
in  on  him  and  drag  him  out  to  death?  The  acute- 
ness  of  his  fright  drove  away  the  faintness.  He 
dragged  the  bed  from  its  place  and  pushed  it 
against  the  door.  Upon  it  he  piled  the  table, 
the  washstand,the  chairs.  Feverishly  he  worked 
to  barricade  the  entrance  against  his  enemies. 

When  he  had  finished,  his  heart  was  beating 
against  his  ribs  like  that  of  a  wild  rabbit  in  the 
hands  of  a  boy.  He  looked  around  for  the  safest 
place  to  hide.  From  the  floor  he  stripped  a 
Navajo  rug  and  pulled  up  the  trapdoor  that 

163 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

led  to  a  small  cellar  stairway.  Down  into  this 
cave  he  went,  letting  the  door  fall  shut  after 
him. 

In  that  dark  blackness  he  waited,  a  crum- 
pled, trembling  wretch,  for  whatever  fate 
might  have  in  store  for  him. 

How  long  he  crouched  there  Beaudry  never 
knew.  At  last  reason  asserted  itself  and  fought 
back  the  panic.  To  stay  where  he  was  would 
be  to  invite  destruction.  His  attackers  would 
come  to  the  window.  The  barricaded  door,  the 
displaced  rug,  the  trapdoor,  would  advertise 
his  terror.  The  outlaws  would  break  in  and 
make  an  end  of  him. 

Roy  could  hardly  drag  his  feet  up  the  stairs, 
so  near  was  he  to  physical  collapse.  He  listened. 
No  sound  reached  him.  Slowly  he  pushed  up 
the  trapdoor.  Nobody  was  in  the  room.  He 
crept  up,  lowered  the  door,  and  replaced  the 
carpet.  With  his  eyes  on  the  window  he  put 
back  the  furniture  where  it  belonged.  Then, 
revolver  hi  hand,  he  sat  in  one  corner  of  the 
room  and  tried  to  decide  what  he  must  do. 

Down  in  the  cellar  he  had  been  vaguely 
aware  of  a  dull  pain  in  his  shoulder  and  a  wet, 
soggy  shirt  above  the  place.  But  the  tenseness 
of  his  anxiety  had  pushed  this  into  the  back- 

164 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

ground  of  his  thoughts.  Now  again  the  throb- 
bing ache  intruded  itself.  The  fingers  of  his 
left  hand  searched  under  his  waistcoat,  explored 
a  spot  that  was  tender  and  soppy,  and  came 
forth  moist. 

He  knew  he  had  been  shot,  but  this  gave  him 
very  little  concern.  He  had  no  time  to  worry 
about  his  actual  ills,  since  his  whole  mind  was 
given  to  the  fear  of  those  that  were  impending. 

Upon  the  window  there  came  a  faint  tapping. 
The  hand  with  the  revolver  jerked  up  auto- 
matically. Every  muscle  of  Beaudry's  body 
grew  rigid.  His  senses  were  keyed  to  a  tense 
alertness.  He  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue 
as  he  crouched  in  readiness  for  the  attack  about 
to  break. 

Again  the  tapping,  and  this  time  with  it  a 
quick,  low,  imperious  call. 

"Mr.  Street.   Are  you  there?  Let  me  in!" 

He  knew  that  voice  —  would  have  known  it 
among  a  thousand.  In  another  moment  he  had 
raised  the  window  softly  and  Beulah  Ruther- 
ford was  climbing  in. 

She  panted  as  if  she  had  been  running. 
"They're  watching  the  entrance  to  the  arroyo. 
I  came  up  through  the  canon  and  across  the 
pasture,"  she  explained. 

165 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Did  they  see  you?" 

"No.   Think  not.   We  must  get  out  of  here." 

"How?" 

"The  same  way  I  came." 

"But  —  if  they  see  us  and  shoot?" 

The  girl  brushed  his  objection  aside.  "We 
can't  help  that.  They  know  you're  here,  don't 
they?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  they'll  rush  the  house.   Come." 

Still  he  hesitated.  At  least  they  had  the  shel- 
ter of  the  house.  Outside,  if  they  should  be  dis- 
covered, they  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  his  foes. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?"  she  asked 
sharply,  and  she  moved  toward  the  window. 

But  though  he  recoiled  from  going  to  meet 
the  danger,  he  could  not  let  a  girl  lead  the  way. 
Beaudry  dropped  to  the  ground  outside  and 
stood  ready  to  lend  her  a  hand.  She  did  not 
need  one.  With  a  twist  of  her  supple  body 
Beulah  came  through  the  opening  and  landed 
lightly  beside  him. 

They  crept  back  to  the  shadows  of  the  hill 
and  skirted  its  edge.  Slowly  they  worked  their 
way  from  the  bunkhouse,  making  the  most  of 
such  cover  as  the  chaparral  afforded.  Farther 
up  they  crossed  the  road  into  the  pasture  and 

166 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

by  way  of  it  reached  the  orchard.    Every  inch 
of  the  distance  Roy  sweated  fear. 

She  was  leading,  ostensibly  because  she  knew 
the  lay  of  the  land  better.  Through  the  banked 
clouds  the  moon  was  struggling.  Its  light  fell 
upon  her  lithe,  slender  figure,  the  beautifully 
poised  head,  the  crown  of  soft  black  hair.  She 
moved  with  the  grace  and  the  rhythm  of  a  racing 
filly  stepping  from  the  paddock  to  the  track. 

Beaudry  had  noticed,  even  in  his  anxiety, 
that  not  once  since  the  tapping  on  the  window 
had  her  hand  touched  his  or  the  sweep  of  her 
skirt  brushed  against  his  clothes.  She  would 
save  him  if  she  could,  but  with  an  open  disdain 
that  dared  him  to  misunderstand. 

They  picked  their  course  diagonally  through 
the  orchard  toward  the  canon.  Suddenly  Beu- 
lah  stopped.  Without  turning,  she  swept  her 
hand  back  and  caught  his.  Slowly  she  drew  him 
to  the  shadow  of  an  apple  tree.  There,  palm 
to  palm,  they  crouched  together. 

Voices  drifted  to  them. 

"I'd  swear  I  hit  him,"  one  said. 

"Maybe  you  put  him  out  of  business.  We 
got  to  find  out,"  another  answered. 

"I'll  crawl  up  to  the  window  and  take  a 
look,"  responded  the  first. 

167 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

The  voice 3  and  the  sound  of  the  man's  move- 
ments died.  Beulah's  hand  dropped  to  her  side. 

"We're  all  right  now,"  she  said  coldly. 

They  reached  the  gulch  and  slowly  worked 
their  way  down  its  precipitous  sides  to  the 
bottom. 

The  girl  turned  angrily  on  Roy.  "Why  did 
n't  you  come  after  father  warned  you?" 

"I  did  n't  get  his  warning  till  night.  I  was 
away." 

"Then  how  did  you  get  back  up  the  arroyo 
when  it  was  watched?" 

"I — I  was  n't  out  into  the  park,"  he  told  her. 

"Oh!"  Her  scornful  gypsy  eyes  passed  over 
him  and  wiped  him  from  the  map.  She  would 
not  even  comment  on  the  obvious  alternative. 

"You  think  I've  been  up  at  Dan  Meldrum's 
spying,"  he  protested  hotly. 

"Have  n't  you?"  she  flung  at  him. 

"Yes,  if  that's  what  you  want  to  call  it," 
came  quickly  his  bitter  answer.  "The  man  who 
has  been  my  best  friend  is  lying  up  there  a  pris- 
oner because  he  knows  too  much  about  the 
criminals  of  Huerfano  Park.  I  heard  Meldrum 
threaten  to  kill  him  unless  he  promised  what 
was  wanted  of  him.  Why  should  n't  I  do  my 
best  to  help  the  man  who  — " 

168 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Her  voice,  sharpened  by  apprehension,  cut 
into  his.  "What  man?  Who  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"I'm  talking  about  David  Dingwell." 

"  What  do  you  mean  that  he  knows  too  much? 
Too  much  about  what?"  she  demanded. 

"About  the  express  robbery." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  —  that  my  peo- 
ple — ?"  She  choked  with  anger,  but  back  of 
her  indignation  was  fear. 

"I  mean  to  say  that  one  of  your  brothers  was 
guarding  Dingwell  and  that  later  your  father 
went  up  to  Meldrum's  place.  They  are  starv- 
ing him  to  get  something  out  of  him.  I  serve 
warning  on  you  that  if  they  hurt  my  friend  — " 

"  Starving  him ! "  she  broke  out  fiercely.  "  Do 
you  dare  say  that  my  people  —  my  father  — 
would  torture  anybody?  Is  that  what  you 
mean,  you  lying  spy?" 

Her  fury  was  a  spur  to  him.  "I  don't  care 
what  words  you  use,"  he  flung  back  wildly. 
"They  have  given  him  no  food  for  three  days. 
I  did  n't  know  such  things  were  done  nowadays. 
It's  as  bad  as  what  the  old  Apaches  did.  It's 
devilish  — •" 

He  pulled  himself  up.  What  right  had  he  to 
talk  that  way  to  the  girl  who  had  just  saved  his 

169 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

life?  Her  people  might  be  law-breakers,  but  he 
felt  that  she  was  clean  of  any  wrongdoing. 

Her  pride  was  shaken.  A  more  immediate 
issue  had  driven  it  into  the  background. 

"Why  should  they  hurt  him?"  she  asked. 
"If  they  had  meant  to  do  that  — " 

"Because  he  won't  tell  what  he  knows  — 
where  the  gold  is  —  won't  promise  to  keep 
quiet  about  it  afterward.  What  else  can  they 
do?  They  can't  turn  him  loose  as  a  witness 
against  them." 

"I  don't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  a  word  of 
it."  Her  voice  broke.  "I'm  going  up  to  see 
right  away." 

:< You  mean  —  to-night?" 

"I  mean  now." 

She  turned  up  the  gulch  instead  of  down. 
Reluctantly  he  followed  her. 


Chapter  XIII 

Beulah  Interferes 

THEY  felt  their  way  up  in  the  darkness. 
The  path  was  rough  and  at  first  pitch- 
black.  After  a  time  they  emerged  from  the 
aspens  into  more  open  travel.  Here  were  occa- 
sional gleams  of  light,  as  if  the  moon  stood  tip- 
toe and  peered  down  between  the  sheer  walls 
of  Chicito  to  the  obscure  depths  below. 

Beulah  led.  Mountain-born  and  bred,  she 
was  active  as  a  bighorn.  Her  slenderness  was 
deceptive.  It  concealed  the  pack  of  her  long 
rippling  muscles,  the  deep-breasted  strength  of 
her  torso.  One  might  have  marched  a  long 
day's  journey  without  finding  a  young  woman 
more  perfectly  modeled  for  grace  and  for 
endurance. 

"What  are  you  going  to  try  to  do?"  Beaudry 
asked  of  her  timidly. 

She  turned  on  him  with  a  burst  of  feminine 
ferocity.  "Is  that  any  of  your  business?  I 
did  n't  ask  you  to  come  with  me,  did  I?  Go 
down  to  the  horse  ranch  and  ask  dad  to  help 

171 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

you  out  of  the  park.  Then,  when  you're  safe 
with  your  friends,  you  can  set  the  officers  on 
him.  Tell  them  he  is  a  criminal  —  just  as  you 
told  me." 

Her  biting  tongue  made  him  wince.  "If  I 
told  you  that  I  'm  sorry.  I  had  no  right.  You  've 
saved  my  life.  Do  you  think  it  likely  I  would 
betray  your  people  after  that?" 

"How  do  I  know  what  a  spy  would  do? 
Thank  God,  I  can't  put  myself  in  the  place  of 
such  people,"  she  answered  disdainfully. 

He  smiled  ruefully.  She  was  unjust,  of  course. 
But  that  did  not  matter.  Roy  knew  that  she 
was  wrought  up  by  what  he  had  told  her.  Pride 
and  shame  and  hatred  and  distrust  spoke  in  her 
sharp  words.  Was  it  not  natural  that  a  high- 
spirited  girl  should  resent  such  a  charge  against 
her  people  and  should  flame  out  against  the 
man  who  had  wounded  her?  Even  though  she 
disapproved  of  what  they  had  done,  she  would 
fly  to  their  defense  when  attacked. 

From  the  dark  gash  of  the  ravine  they  came 
at  last  to  the  opening  where  Meldrum  lived. 

The  young  woman  turned  to  Beaudry.  "  Give 
me  your  revolver  belt." 

He  hesitated.    "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Plainly  she  would  have  liked  to  rebuff  him, 
172 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

but  just  now  he  had  the  whip  hand.  Her  sullen 
answer  came  slowly. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  my  brother  that  father 
needs  him.  When  he  has  gone,  I'll  see  what  I 
can  do." 

"And  what  am  I  to  do  while  you  are  inside?" 

"Whatever  you  like."  She  held  out  her  hand 
for  his  belt. 

Not  at  all  willingly  he  unbuckled  it.  "You'll 
be  careful,"  he  urged.  "Meldrum  is  a  bad  man. 
Don't  try  any  tricks  with  him." 

"He  knows  better  than  to  touch  a  hair  of 
my  head,"  she  assured  him  with  proud  careless- 
ness. Then,  "Hide  in  those  trees,"  she  ordered. 

Ned  Rutherford  answered  her  knock  on  the 
door  of  the  jacal.  At  sight  of  her  he  exclaimed : — 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Boots?  At  this 
time  of  night?  Anything  wrong?" 

"Dad  needs  you,  Ned.  It  seems  there  is 
trouble  about  that  young  man  Street.  Jess 
Tighe  has  sworn  to  kill  him  and  dad  won't 
have  it.  There's  trouble  in  the  air.  You're  to 
come  straight  home." 

"Why  did  n't  he  send  Jeff ?" 

"He  needed  him.  You're  to  keep  on  down 
through  the  canon  to  the  mouth.  Jess  has  the 
mouth  of  the  arroyo  guarded  to  head  off  Street." 

173 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"But  — what's  broke?  Why  should  Tighe 
be  so  keen  on  bumping  off  this  pink-ear  when 
dad  says  no?" 

"They've  found  out  who  he  is.  It  seems 
Street  is  an  alias.  He  is  really  Royal  Beaudry, 
the  son  of  the  man  who  used  to  be  sheriff  of  the 
county,  the  one  who  crippled  Jess  the  day  he 
was  killed." 

The  slim  youth  in  the  high-heeled  boots 
whistled.  He  understood  now  why  Tighe  dared 
to  defy  his  father. 

"All  right,  Boots.  With  you  in  a  minute, 
soon  as  I  get  my  hat  and  let  Dan  know." 

"No.  I'm  to  stay  here  till  dad  sends  for  me. 
He  does  n't  want  me  near  the  trouble." 

"You  mean  you're  to  stay  at  Rothgerber's." 

"No,  here.  Tighe  may  attack  Rothgerber's 
any  time  to  get  this  young  Beaudry.  I  heard 
shooting  as  I  came  up." 

"But  —  you  can't  stay  here.  What's  dad 
thinking  about?"  he  frowned. 

"If  you  mean  because  of  Mr.  Dingwell,  I 
know  all  about  that." 

"Who  told  you?"  he  demanded. 

"Dad  can't  keep  secrets  from  me.  There's 
no  use  his  trying." 

"Hm!  I  notice  he  loaded  us  with  a  heap  of 
174 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

instructions  not  to  let  you  know  anything. 
He'd  better  learn  to  padlock  his  own  tongue." 

"Is  n't  there  a  room  where  I  can  sleep  here?" 
Beulah  asked. 

"There's  a  cot  in  the  back  room,"  he  admit- 
ted sulkily.  "But  you  can't  — " 

"That's  another  thing,"  she  broke  in.  "Dad 
does  n't  want  Dan  left  alone  with  Mr.  Ding- 
well." 

"Who's  that  out  there,  Ned?"  growled  a 
heavy  voice  from  inside. 

Beulah  followed  her  brother  into  the  hut. 
Two  men  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  One  sat 
on  the  bed  with  a  leg  tied  to  the  post.  The  other 
was  at  the  table  playing  solitaire,  a  revolver 
lying  beside  the  cards.  The  card-player  was 
Meldrum.  He  jumped  up  with  an  oath. 

"Goddlemighty!  What's  she  doing  here?" 
he  demanded  in  his  hoarse  raucous  bass. 

"That's  her  business  and  mine,"  Rutherford 
answered  haughtily. 

"It's  mine  too,  by  God!  My  neck's  in  the 
noose,  ain't  it?"  screamed  the  former  convict. 
"Has  everybody  in  the  park  got  to  know  we're 
hiding  Dingwell  here?  Better  put  it  in  the 
paper.  Better  - 

"Enough  of  that,  Dan.  Dad  is  running  this 
175 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

show.  Obey  orders,  and  that  lets  you  out," 
retorted  the  young  man  curtly.  "You've  met 
my  sister,  have  n't  you,  Dave?" 

The  cattleman  smiled  at  the  girl.  "Sure. 
We  had  a  little  ride  together  not  long  since.  I 
owe  you  a  new  raincoat.  Don't  I,  Miss  Beulah?  " 

She  blushed  a  little.  "No,  you  don't,  Mr. 
Dingwell.  The  mud  came  off  after  it  dried." 

"That's  good."  Dave  turned  to  Rutherford. 
The  little  devils  of  mischief  were  in  his  eyes. 
"Chet  Fox  was  with  us,  but  he  did  n't  stay  — 
had  an  engagement,  he  said.  He  was  in  some 
hurry  to  keep  it,  too." 

But  though  he  chatted  with  them  gayly,  the 
ranchman's  mind  was  subconsciously  busy 
with  the  new  factor  that  had  entered  into  the 
problem  of  his  captivity.  Why  had  Rutherford 
allowed  her  to  come?  He  could  not  understand 
that.  Every  added  one  who  knew  that  he  was 
here  increased  the  danger  to  his  abductors.  He 
knew  how  fond  the  owner  of  the  horse  ranch 
was  of  this  girl.  It  was  odd  that  he  had  let  her 
become  incriminated  in  his  lawless  plans. 
Somehow  that  did  not  seem  like  Hal  Ruther- 
ford. One  point  that  stood  out  like  the  Map  of 
Texas  brand  was  the  effect  of  her  coming  upon 
his  chances.  To  secure  their  safety  neither 

176 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Tighe  nor  Meldrum  would  stick  at  murder. 
Ten  minutes  ago  the  prudent  way  out  of  the 
difficulty  would  have  been  for  them  to  arrange 
his  death  by  accident.  Now  this  was  no  longer 
feasible.  When  the  Rutherford  girl  had  stepped 
into  the  conspiracy,  it  became  one  of  finesse 
and  not  bloodshed.  Was  this  the  reason  that 
her  father  had  sent  her  —  to  stay  the  hands  of 
his  associates  already  reaching  toward  the  pris- 
oner? There  was  no  question  that  Meldrum's 
finger  had  been  itching  on  the  trigger  of  his 
revolver  for  a  week.  One  of  the  young  Ruther- 
fords  had  been  beside  him  day  and  night  to 
restrain  the  man. 

Dave  was  due  for  another  surprise  when  Ned 
presently  departed  after  a  whispered  conference 
with  Meldrum  and  left  his  sister  in  the  hut. 
Evidently  something  important  was  taking 
place  in  another  part  of  the  park.  Had  it  to  do 
with  young  Beaudry? 

From  his  reflections  the  cattleman  came  to 
an  alert  attention.  Miss  Rutherford  was  giving 
Meldrum  instructions  to  arrange  her  bed  in  the 
back  room. 

The  convict  hesitated.  "I  can't  leave  him 
here  alone  with  you,"  he  remonstrated  surlily. 

"Why  can't  you?"  demanded  Beulah  inci- 
177 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

sively.  "He's  tied  to  the  bedpost  and  I  have 
my  gun.  I  can  shoot  as  straight  as  you  can. 
What  harm  can  he  do  me  in  five  minutes?  Don't 
be  an  idiot,  Dan." 

Meldrum,  grumbling,  passed  into  the  back 
room. 

In  an  instant  Beulah  was  at  the  table,  had 
drawn  out  a  drawer,  and  had  seized  a  carving 
knife.  She  turned  on  Dingwell,  eyes  flashing. 

"  If  I  help  you  to  escape,  will  you  swear  to  say 
nothing  that  will  hurt  my  father  or  anybody 
else  in  the  park?"  she  demanded  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes  —  if  young  Beaudry  has  not  been  hurt." 

"You  swear  it." 

"Yes." 

She  tossed  him  the  knife,  and  moved  swiftly 
back  to  the  place  where  she  had  been  standing. 
"Whatever  my  father  wants  you  to  do  you'd 
better  do,"  she  said  out  loud  for  the  benefit  of 
Meldrum. 

Dingwell  cut  the  ropes  that  bound  his  leg. 
"I'm  liable  to  be  Dan's  guest  quite  awhile  yet. 
Rutherford  and  I  don't  quite  agree  on  the 
terms,"  he  drawled  aloud. 

Beulah  tossed  him  her  revolver.  "I'll  call 
Dan,  but  you're  not  to  hurt  him,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

178 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

When  Meldrum  came  in  answer  to  her  sum- 
mons, he  met  the  shock  of  his  life.  In  Ding- 
well's  competent  hand  was  a  revolver  aimed 
at  his  heart. 

The  man  turned  savagely  to  Beulah.  "  So  I  'm 
the  goat,"  he  said  with  a  curse.  "Rutherford  is 
going  to  frame  me,  is  he?  I'm  to  go  to  the  pen 
in  place  of  the  whole  bunch.  Is  that  it?" 

"No,  you've  guessed  wrong.  Yore  hide  is 
safe  this  time,  Meldrum,"  the  cattleman  ex- 
plained. "Reach  for  the  roof.  No,  don't  do 
that.  .  .  .  Now,  turn  yore  face  to  the  wall." 

Dave  stepped  forward  and  gathered  in  the 
forty-four  of  the  enemy.  He  also  relieved  him 
of  his  "skinning"  knife.  With  the  deft  hands 
of  an  old  roper  he  tied  the  man  up  and  flung 
him  on  the  bed. 

This  done,  Dingwell  made  straight  for  the 
larder.  Though  he  was  ravenous,  the  cattleman 
ate  with  discretion.  Into  his  pockets  he  packed 
all  the  sandwiches  they  would  hold. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  —  that  they  did  n't  give 
you  anything  to  eat?"  asked  Beulah. 

He  looked  at  her  —  and  lied  cheerfully. 

"Sho,  I  got  cranky  and  would  n't  eat.  Yore 
folks  treated  me  fine.  I  got  my  neck  bowed. 
Can't  blame  them  for  that,  can  I?" 

179 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"We  must  be  going,"  she  told  him.  "If  you 
don't  get  over  the  pass  before  morning,  Tighe 
might  catch  you." 

He  nodded  agreement.  "You're  right,  but 
I've  got  to  look  out  for  young  Beaudry.  Do 
you  know  where  he  is?" 

"He  is  waiting  outside,"  the  girl  said  stiffly. 
"Take  him  away  with  you.  I'll  not  be  respon- 
sible for  him  if  he  comes  back.  We  don't  like 
spies  here." 

They  found  Roy  lying  against  the  wall  of  the 
hut,  his  white  face  shining  in  the  moonlight. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  demanded 
Miss  Rutherford  sharply. 

"I'm  all  right."  Roy  managed  to  rise  and 
lean  against  the  jacal.  "I  see  you  made  it. 
Mr.  Dingwell,  my  name  is  Beaudry." 

"Glad  to  know  you."  The  cattleman's 
strong  hand  gripped  his  limp  one.  "Yore  father 
was  the  gamest  man  I  ever  knew  and  one  of 
my  best  friends." 

The  keen  eyes  of  Beulah  had  been  fastened 
on  Roy.  She  recalled  what  she  had  heard  the 
man  say  in  the  orchard.  In  her  direct  fashion 
she  flung  a  question  at  the  young  man. 

"Are  you  wounded?  Did  that  man  hit  you 
when  he  fired?" 

180 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"It's  in  my  shoulder  —  just  a  flesh  wound. 
The  bleeding  has  stopped  except  when  I  move." 

"Why  did  n't  you  say  something  about  it?" 
she  asked  impatiently.  "Do  you  think  we're 
clairvoyants?  We'd  better  get  him  into  the 
house  and  look  at  it,  Mr.  Dingwell." 

They  did  as  she  suggested.  A  bullet  had 
ploughed  a  furrow  across  the  shoulder.  Except 
for  the  loss  of  blood,  the  wound  was  not  serious. 
With  the  help  of  Miss  Rutherford,  which  was 
given  as  a  matter  of  course  and  quite  without 
embarrassment,  Dave  dressed  and  bandaged 
the  hurt  like  an  expert.  In  his  adventurous  life 
he  had  looked  after  many  men  who  had  been 
shot,  and  had  given  first  aid  to  a  dozen  with 
broken  bones. 

Roy  winced  a  little  at  the  pain,  but  he  made 
no  outcry.  He  was  not  a  baby  about  suffering. 
That  he  could  stand  as  well  as  another.  What 
shook  his  nerve  was  the  fear  of  anticipation, 
the  dread  of  an  impending  disaster  which  his 
imagination  magnified. 

"You'd  better  hurry,"  he  urged  two  or  three 
times.  "Some  one  might  come  any  miriute." 

Dave  looked  at  him,  a  little  surprised. 
"What's  the  urge,  son?  We've  got  two  six- 
guns  with  us  if  anybody  gets  too  neighborly." 

181 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

But  Beulah  was  as  keen  for  the  start  as 
Beaudry.  She  did  not  want  the  men  escaping 
from  the  park  to  meet  with  her  people.  To 
avoid  this,  rapid  travel  was  necessary. 

As  soon  as  Roy  was  patched  up  they  started. 


Chapter  XIV 

Personally  Escorted 

BEFORE  they  reached  the  mouth  of  the 
canon,  Dave  was  supporting  the  slack 
body  of  his  friend.  When  the  party  came  to 
the  aspens,  Beulah  hurried  forward,  and  by  the 
time  the  two  men  emerged  she  was  waiting  for 
them  with  Blacky. 

Roy  protested  at  taking  the  horse,  but  the 
girl  cut  short  his  objections  imperiously. 

"Do  you  think  we've  only  your  silly  pride 
to  consider?  I  want  you  out  of  the  park  — 
where  my  people  can't  reach  you.  I'm  going 
to  see  you  get  out.  After  that  I  don't  care  what 
you  do." 

Moonlight  fell  upon  the  sardonic  smile  on 
the  pitifully  white  face  of  the  young  man.  "  I  'm 
to  be  personally  conducted  by  the  Queen  of 
Huerfano.  That's  great.  I  certainly  appreciate 
the  honor." 

With  the  help  of  Dingwell  he  pulled  himself 
to  the  saddle.  The  exertion  started  a  spurt  of 
warm  blood  at  the  shoulder,  but  Roy  clenched 
his  teeth  and  clung  to  the  pommel  to  steady 

183 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

himself.  The  cattleman  led  the  horse  and  Beu- 
lah  walked  beside  him. 

"I  can  get  another  pony  for  you  at  Came- 
ron's," she  explained.  "Just  above  there  is  a 
short  cut  by  way  of  Dolores  Sinks.  You  ought 
to  be  across  the  divide  before  morning.  I'll 
show  you  the  trail." 

What  story  she  told  to  get  the  horse  from 
Cameron  her  companions  did  not  know,  but 
from  where  they  waited  in  the  pines  they  saw 
the  flickering  light  of  a  lantern  cross  to  the 
stable.  Presently  Beulah  rode  up  to  them  on 
the  hillside  above  the  ranch. 

By  devious  paths  she  led  them  through  chap- 
arral and  woodland.  Sometimes  they  followed 
her  over  hills  and  again  into  gulches.  The  girl 
"spelled"  Dingwell  at  riding  the  second  horse, 
but  whether  in  the  saddle  or  on  foot  her  move- 
ments showed  such  swift  certainty  that  Dave 
was  satisfied  she  knew  where  she  was  going. 

Twice  she  stopped  to  rest  the  wounded  man, 
who  was  now  clinging  with  both  hands  to  the 
saddle-horn.  But  the  hard  gleam  of  her  dark 
eyes  served  notice  that  she  was  moved  by  expe- 
diency and  not  sympathy. 

It  was  midnight  when  at  last  she  stopped 
near  the  entrance  to  the  pass. 

184 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

"The  road  lies  straight  before  you  over  the 
divide.  You  can't  miss  it.  Once  on  the  other 
side  keep  going  till  you  get  into  the  foothills. 
All  trails  will  take  you  down,"  she  told  Ding- 
well. 

"We're  a  heap  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Ruther- 
ford," answered  Dingwell.  "I  reckon  neither 
one  of  us  is  liable  to  forget  what  you've  done 
for  us." 

She  flamed.  "I've  nothing  against  you,  Mr. 
Dingwell,  but  you  might  as  well  know  that 
what  I've  done  was  for  my  people.  I  don't 
want  them  to  get  into  trouble.  If  it  had  n't 
been  for  that  — " 

"You'd  'a'  done  it  just  the  same,"  the  cattle- 
man finished  for  her  with  a  smile.  "You  can't 
make  me  mad  to-night  after  going  the  limit  for 
us  the  way  you  have." 

Beaudry,  sagging  over  the  horn  of  the  saddle, 
added  his  word  timidly,  but  the  Rutherford 
girl  would  have  none  of  his  thanks. 

"You  don't  owe  me  anything,  I  tell  you.  How 
many  times  have  I  got  to  say  that  it  is  nothing 
to  me  what  becomes  of  you?"  she  replied, 
flushing  angrily.  "All  I  ask  is  that  you  don't 
cross  my  path  again.  Next  time  I'll  let  Jess 
Tighe  have  his  way." 

185 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"I  didn't  go  into  the  park  to  spy  on  your 
people,  Miss  Rutherford.  I  went  to  — " 

"I  care  nothing  about  why  you  came."  The 
girl  turned  to  Dingwell,  her  chin  in  the  air. 
"Better  let  him  rest  every  mile  or  two.  I  don't 
want  him  breaking  down  in  our  country  after 
all  the  trouble  I've  taken." 

"You  may  leave  him  to  me.  I'll  look  out  for 
him,"  Dave  promised. 

"Just  so  that  you  don't  let  him  get  caught 
again,"  she  added. 

Her  manner  was  cavalier,  her  tone  almost 
savage.  Without  another  word  she  turned  and 
left  them. 

Dingwell  watched  her  slim  form  disappear 
into  the  night. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  little  thorough- 
bred?" he  asked  admiringly.  "I  take  off  my 
hat  to  her.  She's  the  gamest  kid  I  ever  met  — 
and  pretty  as  they  grow.  Just  think  of  her  pull- 
ing off  this  getaway  to-night.  It  was  a  man- 
size  job,  and  that  little  girl  never  turned  a  hair 
from  start  to  finish.  And  loyal!  By  Gad!  Hal 
Rutherford  has  n't  earned  fidelity  like  that,  even 
if  he  has  been  father  and  mother  to  her  since  she 
was  a  year  old.  He'd  ought  to  send  her  away 
from  that  hell-hole  and  give  her  a  chance." 

186 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"What  will  they  do  to  her  when  she  gets 
back?" 

Dave  chuckled.  "They  can't  do  a  thing. 
That's  the  beauty  of  it.  There'll  be  a  lot  of  tall 
cussing  hi  Huerfano  for  a  while,  but  after  Hal 
has  onloaded  what's  on  his  chest  he'll  stand 
between  her  and  the  rest." 

"Sure  of  that?" 

"It's  a  cinch."  The  cattleman  laughed  softly. 
"But  ain't  she  the  little  spitfire?  I  reckon  she 
sure  hates  you  thorough." 

Roy  did  not  answer.  He  was  sliding  from 
the  back  of  his  horse  in  a  faint. 

When  Beaudry  opened  his  eyes  again,  Ding- 
well  was  pouring  water  into  his  mouth  from  a 
canteen  that  had  been  hanging  to  the  pommel 
of  Miss  Rutherford's  saddle. 

"Was  I  unconscious?"  asked  the  young  man 
in  disgust. 

"That's  whatever.  Just  you  lie  there,  son, 
whilst  I  fix  these  bandages  up  for  you  again." 

The  cattleman  moistened  the  hot  cloths  with 
cold  water  and  rearranged  them. 

"We  ought  to  be  hurrying  on,"  Roy  sug- 
gested, glancing  anxiously  down  the  steep 
ascent  up  which  they  had  ridden. 

"No  rush  a-tall,"  Dave  assured  him  cheer- 
187 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

fully.  "We  got  all  the  time  there  is.  Best  thing 
to  do  is  to  loaf  along  and  take  it  easy." 

"But  they'll  be  on  our  trail  as  soon  as  they 
know  we've  gone.  They'll  force  Miss  Ruther- 
ford to  tell  which  way  we  came." 

Dingwell  grinned.  "Son,  did  you  ever  look 
into  that  girl's  eyes?  They  look  right  at  you, 
straight  and  unafraid.  The  Huerfano  Park  out- 
fit will  have  a  real  merry  time  getting  her  to 
tell  anything  she  does  n't  want  to.  When  she 
gets  her  neck  bowed,  I'll  bet  she's  some  sot. 
Might  as  well  argue  with  a  government  mule. 
She'd  make  a  right  interesting  wife  for  some 
man,  but  he'd  have  to  be  a  humdinger  to  hold 
his  end  up  —  six  foot  of  man,  lots  of  patience, 
and  sense  enough  to  know  he  'd  married  a  wo- 
man out  of  'steen  thousand." 

Young  Beaudry  was  not  contemplating  mat- 
rimony. His  interest  just  now  was  centered  in 
getting  as  far  from  the  young  woman  and  her 
relatives  as  possible. 

"When  young  Rutherford  finds  he  has  been 
sold,  there  will  be  the  deuce  to  pay,"  urged 
Roy. 

"Will  there?  I  dunno.  Old  man  Rutherford 
ain't  going  to  be  so  awfully  keen  to  get  us  back 
on  his  hands.  We  worried  him  a  heap.  Miss 

188 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Beulah  lifted  two  heavy  weights  off 'n  his  mind. 
I'm  one  and  you're  the  other.  O'  course,  he'll 
start  the  boys  out  after  us  to  square  himself  with 
Tighe  and  Meldrum.  He's  got  to  do  that. 
They're  sure  going  to  be  busy  bees  down  hi  the 
Huerfano  hive.  The  Rutherford  boys  are  going 
to  do  a  lot  of  night-riding  for  quite  some  time. 
But  I  expect  Hal  won't  give  them  orders  to 
bring  us  in  dead  or  alive.  There  is  no  premium 
on  our  pelts." 

Roy  spent  a  nervous  half-hour  before  his 
friend  would  let  him  mount  again  —  and  he 
showed  it.  The  shrewd  eyes  of  the  old  cattle- 
man appraised  him.  Already  he  guessed  some 
of  the  secrets  of  this  young  man's  heart. 

Dave  swung  to  the  left  into  the  hills  so  as  to 
get  away  from  the  beaten  trails  after  they  had 
crossed  the  pass.  He  rode  slowly,  with  a  care- 
ful eye  upon  his  companion.  Frequently  he 
stopped  to  rest  in  spite  of  Roy's  protests. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  they  came  to  a  little 
mountain  ranch  owned  by  a  nester  who  had 
punched  cattle  for  Dave  in  the  old  days.  Now 
he  was  doing  a  profitable  business  himself  in 
other  men's  calves.  He  had  started  with  a 
branding-iron  and  a  flexible  conscience.  He 
still  had  both  of  them,  together  with  a  nice 

189 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

little  bunch  of  cows  that  beat  the  world's  rec- 
ords for  fecundity. 

It  was  not  exactly  the  place  Dingwell  would 
have  chosen  to  go  into  hiding,  but  he  had  to 
take  what  he  could  get.  Roy,  completely  ex- 
hausted, was  already  showing  a  fever.  He 
could  not  possibly  travel  farther. 

With  the  casual  confidence  that  was  one  of  his 
assets  Dave  swung  from  his  horse  and  greeted 
the  ranchman. 

"'Lo,  Hart!  Can  we  roost  here  to-night?  My 
friend  got  thrown  and  hurt  his  shoulder.  He's 
all  in." 

The  suspicious  eyes  of  the  nester  passed  over 
Beaudry  and  came  back  to  Dingwell. 

"I  reckon  so,"  he  said,  not  very  graciously. 
"We're  not  fixed  for  company,  but  if  you'll  put 
up  with  what  we've  got  — " 

"  Suits  us  fine.  My  friend 's  name  is  Beaudry. 
I'll  get  him  right  to  bed." 

Roy  stayed  in  bed  for  forty-eight  hours.  His 
wound  was  only  a  slight  one  and  the  fever  soon 
subsided.  The  third  day  he  was  sunning  him- 
self on  the  porch.  Dave  had  gone  on  a  little 
jaunt  to  a  water-hole  to  shoot  hooters  for  sup- 
per. Mrs.  Hart  was  baking  bread  inside.  Her 
husband  had  left  before  daybreak  and  was  not 

190 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

yet  back.  He  was  looking  for  strays,  his  wife 
said. 

In  the  family  rocking-chair  Roy  was  reading 
a  torn  copy  of  "Martin  Chuzzlewit."  How  it 
had  reached  this  haven  was  a  question,  since  it 
was  the  only  book  in  the  house  except  a  Big 
Creek  bible,  as  the  catalogue  of  a  mail-order 
house  is  called  in  that  country.  Beaudry  re- 
sented the  frank,  insolent  observations  of  Dick- 
ens on  the  manners  of  Americans.  In  the  first 
place,  the  types  were  not  true  to  life.  In  the 
second  place  — 

The  young  man  heard  footsteps  coming 
around  the  corner  of  the  house.  He  glanced  up 
carelessly  —  and  his  heart  seemed  to  stop  beat- 
ing. 

He  was  looking  into  the  barrel  of  a  revolver 
pointed  straight  at  him.  Back  of  the  weapon 
was  the  brutal,  triumphant  face  of  Meldrum. 
It  was  set  in  a  cruel  grin  that  showed  two  rows 
of  broken,  tobacco-stained  teeth. 

"By  God!  I've  got  you.  Git  down  on  yore 
knees  and  beg,  Mr.  Spy.  I'm  going  to  blow 
yore  head  off  in  just  thirty  seconds." 

Not  in  his  most  unbridled  moments  had  Dick- 
ens painted  a  bully  so  appalling  as  this  one.  This 
man  was  a  notorious  "killer"  and  the  lust  of 

191 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

murder  was  just  now  on  him.  Young  Beau- 
dry's  brain  reeled.  It  was  only  by  an  effort  that 
he  pulled  himself  back  from  the  unconscious- 
ness into  which  he  was  swimming. 


Chapter  XV 
The  Bad  Man 

THE  eyes  of  Beaudry,  held  in  dreadful  fas- 
cination, clung  to  the  lupine  face  behind 
the  revolver.  To  save  his  life  he  could  have 
looked  nowhere  else  except  into  those  cold,  nar- 
row pupils  where  he  read  death.  Little  beads 
of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead.  The  tongue  in 
his  mouth  was  dry.  His  brain  seemed  para- 
lyzed. Again  he  seemed  to  be  lifted  from  his  feet 
by  a  wave  of  deadly  terror. 

Meldrum  had  been  drinking  heavily,  but  he 
was  not  drunk.  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
watch  and  laid  it  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  Roy 
noticed  that  the  rim  of  the  revolver  did  not 
waver.  It  was  pointed  directly  between  his 
eyes. 

"  Git  down  on  yore  knees  and  beg,  damn  you. 
In  less  'n  a  minute  hell  pops  for  you." 

The  savage,  exultant  voice  of  the  former  con- 
vict beat  upon  Roy  like  the  blows  of  a  hammer. 
He  would  have  begged  for  his  life, — begged 
abjectly,  cravenly,  —  but  his  teeth  chattered 
and  his  parched  tongue  was  palsied.  He  would 

193 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

have  sunk  to  his  knees,  but  terror  had  robbed 
his  muscles  of  the  strength  to  move.  He  was 
tied  to  his  chair  by  ropes  stronger  than  chains 
of  steel. 

The  watch  ticked  away  the  seconds.  From 
the  face  of  Meldrum  the  grin  was  snuffed  out  by 
a  swift  surge  of  wolfish  anger. 

"Are  you  deef  and  dumb ?  "  he  snarled.  " It 's 
Dan  Meldrum  talking  —  the  man  yore  dad  sent 
to  the  penitentiary.  I 'm  going  to  kill  you.  Then 
I'll  cut  another  notch  on  my  gun.  Under- 
stand?" 

The  brain  of  the  young  lawyer  would  not 
function.  His  will  was  paralyzed.  Yet  every 
sense  was  amazingly  alert.  He  did  not  miss  a 
tick  of  the  watch.  Every  beat  of  his  heart  reg- 
istered. 

"You  butted  in  and  tried  to  spy  like  yore 
dad,  did  you?"  the  raucous  voice  continued. 
"Thought  you  could  sell  us  out  and  git  away 
with  it.  Here's  where  you  learn  different. 
Jack  Beaudry  was  a  man,  anyhow,  and  we  got 
him.  You're  nothing  but  a  pink-ear,  a  whey- 
faced  baby  without  guts  to  stand  the  gaff. 
Well,  you've  come  to  the  end  of  yore  trail.  Beg, 
you  skunk!" 

From  the  mind  of  Beaudry  the  fog  lifted.  In 
104 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

the  savage,  malignant  eyes  glaring  at  him  he 
read  that  he  was  lost.  The  clutch  of  fear  so  over- 
whelmed him  that  suspense  was  unbearable. 
He  wanted  to  shriek  aloud,  to  call  on  this  man- 
killer  to  end  the  agony.  It  was  the  same  im- 
pulse, magnified  a  hundred  times,  that  leads 
a  man  to  bite  on  an  ulcerated  tooth  in  a  weak 
impotence  of  pain. 

The  tick-tick-tick  of  the  watch  mocked  him 
to  frenzied  action.  He  gripped  the  arms  of  the 
chair  with  both  hands  and  thrust  forward  his 
face  against  the  cold  rim  of  the  revolver  barrel. 

"Shoot!"  he  cried  hoarsely,  drunk  with  ter- 
ror. "Shoot,  and  be  damned!" 

Before  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth  a  shot 
echoed.  For  the  second  time  in  his  life  Roy  lost 
consciousness.  Not  many  seconds  could  have 
passed  before  he  opened  his  eyes  again.  But 
what  he  saw  puzzled  him. 

Meldrum  was  writhing  on  the  ground  and 
cursing.  His  left  hand  nursed  the  right,  which 
moved  up  and  down  frantically  as  if  to  escape 
from  pain.  Toward  the  house  walked  Dingwell 
and  by  his  side  Beulah  Rutherford.  Dave  was 
ejecting  a  shell  from  the  rifle  he  carried.  Slowly 
it  came  to  the  young  man  that  he  had  not  been 
shot.  The  convict  must  have  been  hit  instead  by 

195 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

a  bullet  from  the  gun  of  the  cattleman.  He  was 
presently  to  learn  that  the  forty-four  had  been 
struck  and  knocked  from  the  hand  of  its  owner. 

"Every  little  thing  all  right,  son?"  asked  the 
cowman  cheerily.  "We  sure  did  run  this  rescue 
business  fine.  Another  minute  and  —  But 
what's  the  use  of  worrying?  Miss  Beulah  and 
I  were  Johnny-on-the-spot  all  right." 

Roy  said  nothing.  He  could  not  speak.  His 
lips  and  cheeks  were  still  bloodless.  By  the  nar- 
rowest margin  in  the  world  he  had  escaped. 

Disgustedly  the  cattleman  looked  down  at 
Meldrum,  who  was  trying  to  curse  and  weep 
from  pain  at  the  same  time. 

"Stung  you  up  some,  did  I?  Hm!  You  ought 
to  be  singing  hymns  because  I  did  n't  let  you 
have  it  in  the  haid,  which  I'd  most  certainly 
have  done  if  you  had  harmed  my  friend.  Get 
up,  you  bully,  and  stop  cursing.  There's  a  lady 
here,  and  you  ain't  damaged,  anyhow." 

The  eyes  of  Beaudry  met  those  of  Beulah. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  her  lip  curled  contemp- 
tuously. She  had  been  witness  of  his  degrada- 
tion, had  seen  him  show  the  white  feather.  A 
pulse  of  shame  beat  in  his  throat. 

"W-w-what  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked 
wretchedly. 

196 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Dave  answered  for  her.  "Is  n't  she  always 
on  the  job  when  she's  needed?  Yore  fairy  god- 
mother—  that's  what  Miss  Beulah  Ruther- 
ford is.  Rode  hell-for-leather  down  here  to 
haid  off  that  coyote  there  —  and  done  it,  too. 
Bumped  into  me  at  the  water-hole  and  I  hopped 
on  that  Blacky  hawss  behind  her.  He  brought 
us  in  on  the  jump  and  Sharp's  old  reliable  upset 
Meldrum's  apple  cart." 

Still  nursing  the  tips  of  his  tingling  fingers, 
the  ex-convict  scowled  venomously  at  Beulah. 
"I'll  remember  that,  missie.  That's  twice 
you've  interfered  with  me.  I  sure  will  learn 
you  to  mind  yore  own  business." 

Dingwell  looked  steadily  at  him.  "We've 
heard  about  enough  from  you.  Beat  it!  Hit  the 
trail!  Pull  yore  freight!  Light  out!  Vamos  I 
Git!" 

The  man-killer  glared  at  him.  For  a  moment 
he  hesitated.  He  would  have  liked  to  try  con- 
clusions with  the  cattleman  to  a  fighting  finish, 
but  though  he  had  held  his  own  in  many  a  rough- 
and-tumble  fray,  he  lacked  the  unflawed  nerve 
to  face  this  man  with  the  cold  gray  eye  and  the 
chilled-steel  jaw.  His  fury  broke  in  an  impotent 
curse  as  he  slouched  away. 

"I  don't  understand  yet,"  pursued  Roy. 
197 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"How  did  Miss  Rutherford  know  that  Mel- 
drum  was  coming  here?" 

"Friend  Hart  rode  up  to  tell  Tighe  we  were 
here.  He  met  Meldrum  close  to  the  school- 
house.  The  kids  were  playing  hide-and-go- 
seek.  One  of  them  was  lying  right  back  of  a  big 
rock  beside  the  road.  He  heard  Dan  swear  he 
was  coming  down  to  stop  yore  clock,  son.  The 
kid  went  straight  to  teacher  soon  as  the  men 
had  ridden  off.  He  told  what  Meldrum  had 
said.  So,  of  course,  Miss  Beulah  she  sent  the 
children  home  and  rode  down  to  the  hawss 
ranch  to  get  her  father  or  one  of  her  brothers. 
None  of  them  were  at  home  and  she  hit  the 
trail  alone  to  warn  us." 

"I  knew  my  people  would  be  blamed  for 
what  this  man  did,  so  I  blocked  him,"  ex- 
plained the  girl  with  her  habitual  effect  of  hos- 
tile pride. 

"  You  said  you  would  let  Tighe  have  his  way 
next  time,  but  you  don't  need  to  apologize  for 
breaking  yore  word,  Miss  Beulah,"  responded 
Dingwell  with  his  friendly  smile.  "All  we  Ve  got 
to  say  is  that  you've  got  chalked  up  against  us 
an  account  we'll  never  be  able  to  pay." 

The  color  beat  into  her  cheeks.  She  was  both 
embarrassed  and  annoyed.  With  a  gesture  of 

198 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

impatience  she  turned  away  and  walked  to 
Blacky.  Lithely  she  swung  to  the  saddle. 

Mrs.  Hart  had  come  to  the  porch.  In  her 
harassed  countenance  still  lingered  the  remains 
of  good  looks.  The  droop  at  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  suggested  a  faint  resentment  against  a 
fate  which  had  stolen  her  youth  without  leaving 
the  compensations  of  middle  life. 

"Won't  you  light  offn  yore  bronc  and  stay 
to  supper,  Miss  Rutherford?"  she  invited. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Hart.  I  can't.  Must  get 
home." 

With  a  little  nod  to  the  woman  she  swung 
her  horse  around  and  was  gone. 

Hart  did  not  show  up  for  supper  nor  for 
breakfast.  It  was  an  easy  guess  that  he  lacked 
the  hardihood  to  face  them  after  his  attempted 
betrayal.  At  all  events,  they  saw  nothing  of 
him  before  they  left  in  the  morning.  If  they  had 
penetrated  his  wife's  tight-lipped  reserve,  they 
might  have  shared  her  opinion,  that  he  had  gone 
off  on  a  long  drinking-bout  with  Dan  Meldrum. 

Leisurely  Beaudry  and  his  friend  rode  down 
through  the  chaparral  to  Battle  Butte. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  town  they  met  Ned 
Rutherford.  After  they  had  passed  him,  he 
turned  and  followed  in  their  tracks. 

199 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Dingwell  grinned  across  at  Roy.  "Some  thor- 
ough our  friends  are.  A  bulldog  has  got  noth- 
ing on  them.  They're  hanging  around  to  help 
me  dig  up  that  gunny  sack  when  I  get  ready." 

The  two  men  rode  straight  to  the  office  of  the 
sheriff  and  had  a  talk  with  him.  From  there 
they  went  to  the  hotel  where  Dave  usually  put 
up  when  he  was  in  town.  Over  their  dinner  the 
cattleman  renewed  an  offer  he  had  been  urging 
upon  Roy  all  the  way  down  from  Hart's  place. 
He  needed  a  reliable  man  to  help  him  manage 
the  different  holdings  he  had  been  accumulating. 
His  proposition  was  to  take  Beaudry  in  as  a 
junior  partner,  the  purchase  price  to  be  paid 
in  installments  to  be  earned  out  of  the  profits  of 
the  business. 

"'Course  I  don't  want  to  take  you  away  from 
the  law  if  you're  set  on  that  profession,  but  if 
you  don't  really  care  — "  Dave  lifted  an  eye- 
brow in  a  question. 

"I  think  I'd  like  the  law,  but  I  know  I  would 
like  better  an  active  outdoor  life.  That's  not 
the  point,  Mr.  Dingwell.  I  can't  take  some- 
thing for  nothing.  You  can  get  a  hundred  men 
who  know  far  more  about  cattle  than  I  do.  Why 
do  you  pick  me?" 

"I've  got  reasons  a-plenty.  Right  off  the 
200 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

bat  here  are  some  of  them.  I'm  under  obliga- 
tions to  Jack  Beaudry  and  I'd  like  to  pay  my 
debt  to  his  son.  I  've  got  no  near  kin  of  my  own. 
I  need  a  partner,  but  it  is  n't  one  man  out  of  a 
dozen  I  can  get  along  with.  Most  old  cowmen 
are  rutted  in  their  ways.  You  don't  know  a  thing 
about  the  business.  But  you  can  learn.  You're 
teachable.  You  are  not  one  of  these  wise  guys. 
Then,  too,  I  like  you,  son.  I  don't  want  a  part- 
ner that  rubs  me  the  wrong  way.  Hell,  my  why- 
fors  all  simmer  down  to  one.  You're  the  part- 
ner I  want,  Roy." 

"If  you  find  I  don't  suit  you,  will  you  let  me 
know?" 

"Sure.  But  there  is  no  chance  of  that."  Dave 
shook  hands  with  him  joyously.  "It's  a  deal, 
boy." 

"It's  a  deal,"  agreed  Beaudry. 


Chapter  XVI 
Roy  is  Invited  to  Take  a  Drink 

DINGWELL  gave  a  fishing-party  next  day. 
His  invited  guests  were  Sheriff  Sweeney, 
Royal  Beaudry,  Pat  Ryan,  and  Superintend- 
ent Elder,  of  the  Western  Express  Company. 
Among  those  present,  though  at  a  respectable 
distance,  were  Ned  Rutherford  and  Brad  Charl- 
ton. 

The  fishermen  took  with  them  neither  rods 
nor  bait.  Their  flybooks  were  left  at  home. 
Beaudry  brought  to  the  meeting-place  a  quar- 
ter-inch rope  and  a  grappling-iron  with  three 
hooks.  Sweeney  and  Ryan  carried  rifles  and 
the  rest  of  the  party  revolvers. 

Dave  himself  did  the  actual  fishing.  After 
the  grappling-hook  had  been  attached  to  the 
rope,  he  dropped  it  into  Big  Creek  from  a  large 
rock  under  the  bridge  that  leads  to  town  from 
Lonesome  Park.  He  hooked  his  big  fish  at  the 
fourth  cast  and  worked  it  carefully  into  the 
shallow  water.  Roy  waded  into  the  stream  and 
dragged  the  catch  ashore.  It  proved  to  be  a 
gunny  sack  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars. 

202 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Elder  counted  the  sacks  inside.  "Every- 
thing is  all  right.  How  did  you  come  to  drop 
the  money  here?" 

"I'm  mentioning  no  names,  Mr.  Elder.  But 
I  was  so  fixed  that  I  could  n't  turn  back.  If  I 
left  the  road,  my  tracks  would  show.  There 
were  reasons  why  I  did  n't  want  to  continue  on 
into  town  with  the  loot.  So,  as  I  was  crossing 
the  bridge,  without  leaving  the  saddle  or  even 
stopping,  I  deposited  the  gold  in  the  Big  Creek 
safety  deposit  vault,"  Dingwell  answered  with 
a  grin. 

"But  supposing  the  Rutherfords  had  found 
it?"  The  superintendent  put  his  question 
blandly. 

The  face  of  the  cattleman  was  as  expressive 
as  a  stone  wall.  "Did  I  mention  the  Ruther- 
fords?" he  asked,  looking  straight  into  the  eye 
of  the  Western  Express  man.  "I  reckon  you 
did  n't  hear  me  quite  right." 

Elder  laughed  a  little.  He  was  a  Westerner 
himself.  "  Oh,  I  heard  you,  Mr.  Dingwell.  But 
I  have  n't  heard  a  lot  of  things  I  'd  like  to 
know." 

The  cattleman  pushed  the  sack  with  his  toe. 
"Money  talks,  folks  say." 

"Maybe  so.  But  it  has  n't  told  me  why  you 
203 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

could  n't  go  back  along  the  road  you  came,  why 
you  could  n't  leave  the  road,  and  why  you 
did  n't  want  to  go  right  up  to  Sweeney's  office 
with  the  sack.  It  has  n't  given  me  any  informa- 
tion about  where  you  have  been  the  past  two 
weeks,  or  how  — " 

"My  gracious!  He  bubbles  whyfors  and  how- 
fors  like  he  had  just  come  uncorked,"  murmured 
Dave,  in  his  slow  drawl.  "Just  kinder  effer- 
vesces them  out  of  the  mouth." 

"I  know  you're  not  going  to  tell  me  anything 
you  don't  want  me  to  know,  still  — " 

"You  done  guessed  it  first  crack.  Move  on 
up  to  the  haid  of  the  class." 

"Still,  you  can't  keep  me  from  thinking. 
You  can  call  the  turn  on  the  fellows  that 
robbed  the  Western  Express  Company  when- 
ever you  feel  like  it.  Right  now  you  could  name 
the  men  that  did  it." 

Dave's  most  friendly,  impudent  smile  beamed 
upon  the  superintendent.  "I  thank  you  for  the 
compliment,  Mr.  Elder.  Honest,  I  did  n't  know 
how  smart  a  haid  I  had  in  my  hat  till  you  told 


me." 


"It's  good  ye've  got  an  air-tight  alibi  your- 
silf,  Dave,"  grinned  Pat  Ryan. 

"  I  've  looked  up  his  alibi.  It  will  hold  water," 
204 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

admitted  Elder  genially.  "Well,  Dingwell,  if 
you  won't  talk,  you  won't.  We'll  move  on  up 
to  the  bank  and  deposit  our  find.  Then  the 
drinks  will  be  on  me." 

The  little  procession  moved  uptown.  A  hun- 
dred yards  behind  it  came  young  Rutherford  and 
Charlton  as  a  rear  guard.  When  the  contents 
of  the  sack  had  been  put  in  a  vault  for  safe- 
keeping, Elder  invited  the  party  into  the  Last 
Chance.  Dave  and  Roy  ordered  buttermilk. 

Dingwell  gave  his  partner  a  nudge.  "  See  who 
is  here." 

The  young  man  nodded  gloomily.  He  had 
recognized  already  the  two  men  drinking  at  a 
table  in  the  rear. 

"Meldrum  and  Hart  make  a  sweet  pair  to 
draw  to  when  they're  tanking  up.  They're 
about  the  two  worst  bad  men  in  this  part  of 
the  country.  My  advice  is  to  take  the  other 
side  of  the  street  when  you  see  them  coming," 
Ryan  contributed. 

The  rustlers  glowered  at  Elder's  party,  but 
offered  no  comment  other  than  some  sneering 
laughter  and  ribald  whispering.  Yet  Beaudry 
breathed  freer  when  he  was  out  in  the  open 
again  lengthening  the  distance  between  him 
and  them  at  every  stride. 

205 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Ryan  walked  as  far  as  the  hotel  with  Dave 
and  his  partner. 

"Come  in  and  have  dinner  with  us,  Pat," 
invited  the  cattleman. 

The  Irishman  shook  his  head.  "Can't, 
Dave.  Got  to  go  round  to  the  Elephant  Corral 
and  look  at  my  horse.  A  nail  wint  into  its  foot 
last  night." 

After  they  had  dined,  Dingwell  looked  at  his 
watch.  "I  want  you  to  look  over  the  ranch  to- 
day, son.  We'll  ride  out  and  I'll  show  you  the 
place.  But  first  I  Ve  got  to  register  a  kick  with 
the  station  agent  about  the  charges  for  freight 
on  a  wagon  I  had  shipped  in  from  Denver.  Will 
you  stop  at  Salmon's  and  order  this  bill  of 
groceries  sent  up  to  the  corral?  I'll  meet  you 
here  at  2.30." 

Roy  walked  up  Mission  Street  as  far  as  Sal- 
mon's New  York  Grocery  and  turned  in  the 
order  his  friend  had  given  him.  After  he  had 
seen  it  filled,  he  strolled  along  the  sunny  street 
toward  the  plaza.  It  was  one  of  those  warm, 
somnolent  New  Mexico  days  as  peaceful  as  old 
age.  Burros  blinked  sleepily  on  three  legs  and 
a  hoof -tip.  Cowponies  switched  their  tails  in- 
dolently to  brush  away  flies.  An  occasional 
half-garbed  Mexican  lounged  against  a  door 

206 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

jamb  or  squatted  in  the  shade  of  a  wall.  A 
squaw  from  the  reservation  crouched  on  the 
curb  beside  her  display  of  pottery.  Not  a  sound 
disturbed  the  siesta  of  Battle  Butte. 

Into  this  peace  broke  an  irruption  of  riot. 
A  group  of  men  poured  through  the  swinging 
doors  of  a  saloon  into  the  open  arcade  in  front. 
Their  noisy  disputation  shattered  the  sunny 
stillness  like  a  fusillade  in  the  desert.  Plainly 
they  were  much  the  worse  for  liquor. 

Roy  felt  again  the  familiar  clutch  at  his 
throat,  the  ice  drench  at  his  heart,  and  the  faint 
slackness  of  his  leg  muscles.  For  in  the  crowd 
just  vomited  from  the  Silver  Dollar  were  Mel- 
drum,  Fox,  Hart,  Charlton,  and  Ned  Ruther- 
ford. 

Charlton  it  was  that  caught  sight  of  the  pass- 
ing man.  With  an  exultant  whoop  he  leaped 
out,  seized  Beaudry,  and  swung  him  into  the 
circle  of  hillmen. 

"Tickled  to  death  to  meet  up  with  you,  Mr. 
Royal-Cherokee-Beaudry-Street.  How  is  every 
little  thing  a-coming?  Fine  as  silk,  eh?  You'd 
ought  to  be  laying  by  quite  a  bit  of  the  mazuma, 
what  with  rewards  and  spy  money  together," 
taunted  Charlton. 

To  the  center  of  the  circle  Meldrum  elbowed 
207 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

his  drunken  way.  "Lemme  get  at  the  pink- 
ear.  Lemme  bust  him  one,"  he  demanded. 

Ned  Rutherford  held  him  back.  "Don't 
break  yore  breeching,  Dan.  Brad  has  done 
spoke  for  him,"  the  young  man  drawled. 

Into  the  white  face  of  his  victim  Charlton 
puffed  the  smoke  of  his  cigar.  "If  you  ain't  too 
busy  going  fishing  maybe  you  could  sell  me  a 
windmill  to-day.  How  about  that,  Mr.  Cor- 
nell-I-Yell?" 

"Where's  yore  dry  nurse  Dingwell?"  broke 
in  the  ex-convict  bitterly.  "Thought  he  tagged 
you  everywhere.  Tell  the  son-of-a-gun  for  me 
that  next  time  we  meet  I'll  curl  his  hair  right." 

Roy  said  nothing.  He  looked  wildly  around 
for  a  way  of  escape  and  found  none.  A  half  ring 
of  jeering  faces  walled  him  from  the  street. 

"Lemme  get  at  him.  Lemme  crack  him  one 
on  the  bean,"  insisted  Meldrum  as  he  made  a 
wild  pass  at  Beaudry. 

"No  hurry  a-tall,"  soothed  Ned.  "We  got 
all  evening  before  us.  Take  yore  time,  Dan." 

"Looks  to  me  like  it's  certainly  up  to  Mr. 
Cherokee- What  's-his-name-Beaudry  to  treat 
the  crowd,"  suggested  Chet  Fox. 

The  young  man  clutched  at  the  straw.  "Sure. 
Of  course,  I  will.  Glad  to  treat,  even  though  I 

208 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

don't  drink  myself,"   he   said   with  a  weak, 
forced  heartiness. 

"You  don't  drink.  The  hell  you  don't!"  cut 
in  Meldrum  above  the  Babel  of  voices. 

"He  drinks  —  hie  —  buttermilk,"  contrib- 
uted Hart. 

"He'll  drink  whiskey  when  I  give  the  word, 
by  Gad!"  Meldrum  shook  himself  free  of  Ruth- 
erford and  pressed  forward.  He  dragged  a  bot- 
tle from  his  pocket,  drew  out  the  cork,  and 
thrust  the  liquor  at  Roy.  "Drink,  you  yellow- 
streaked  coyote  —  and  drink  a-plenty." 

Roy  shook  his  head.  "No!  —  no,"  he  pro- 
tested. "I  —  I  —  never  touch  it."  His  lips 
were  ashen.  The  color  had  fled  from  his  cheeks. 

The  desperado  pushed  his  cruel,  vice-scarred 
face  close  to  that  of  the  man  he  hated. 

"Sa-ay.  Listen  to  me,  young  fellow.  I'm 
going  to  bump  you  off  one  o'  these  days  sure. 
Me,  I  don't  like  yore  name  nor  the  color  of 
yore  hair  nor  the  map  you  wear  for  a  face.  I'm 
a  killer.  Me,  Dan  Meldrum.  And  I  serve  no- 
tice on  you  right  now."  With  an  effort  he 
brought  his  mind  back  to  the  issue  on  hand. 
"But  that  ain't  the  point.  When  I  ask  a  man  to 
drink  he  drinks.  See?  You  ain't  deef,  are  you? 
Then  drink,  you  rabbit!" 

209 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Beaudry,  his  heart  beating  like  a  tripham- 
mer, told  himself  that  he  was  not  going  to  drink 
—  that  they  could  not  make  him  —  that  he 
would  die  first.  But  before  he  knew  it  the  flask 
was  in  his  trembling  fingers.  Apparently,  with- 
out the  consent  of  his  flaccid  will,  the  muscles 
had  responded  to  the  impulse  of  obedience  to 
the  spur  of  fear.  Even  while  his  brain  drummed 
the  refrain,  "I  won't  drink  —  I  won't  —  I 
won't,"  the  bottle  was  rising  to  his  lips. 

He  turned  a  ghastly  grin  on  his  tormentors. 
It  was  meant  to  propitiate  them,  to  save  the  last 
scrap  of  his  self-respect  by  the  assumption  that 
they  were  all  good  fellows  together.  Feebly  it 
suggested  that  after  all  a  joke  is  a  joke. 

From  the  uptilted  flask  the  whiskey  poured 
into  his  mouth.  He  swallowed,  and  the  fiery 
liquid  scorched  his  throat.  Before  he  could 
hand  the  liquor  back  to  its  owner,  the  ex-con- 
vict broke  into  a  curse. 

"Drink,  you  pink-ear.  Don't  play  'possum 
with  me,"  he  roared.  Roy  drank.  Swallow  after 
swallow  of  the  stuff  burned  its  way  into  his 
stomach.  He  stopped  at  last,  sputtering  and 
coughing. 

"M  —  much  obliged.  I'll  be  going  now,"  he 
stammered. 

210 


;  The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Not  quite  yet,  Mr.  R.  C.  Street-Beaudry," 
demurred  Charlton  suavely.  "Stay  and  play 
with  us  awhile,  now  you're  here.  No  telling 
when  we'll  meet  again."  He  climbed  on  the 
shoe-shining  chair  that  stood  in  the  entry. 
"I  reckon  I'll  have  my  boots  shined  up.  Go  to 
it,  Mr.  Beaudry-Street." 

With  a  whoop  of  malice  the  rest  of  them  fell 
in  with  the  suggestion.  To  make  this  young 
fellow  black  their  boots  in  turn  was  the  most 
humiliating  thing  they  could  think  of  at  the 
moment.  They  pushed  Roy  toward  the  stand 
and  put  a  brush  into  his  hand.  He  stood  still, 
hesitating. 

"Git  down  on  yore  knees  and  hop  to  it," 
ordered  Charlton.  "Give  him  room,  boys." 

Again  Beaudry  swore  to  himself  that  he 
would  not  do  it.  He  had  an  impulse  to  smash 
that  sneering,  cruel  face,  but  it  was  physically 
impossible  for  him  to  lift  a  hand  to  strike. 
Though  he  was  trembling  violently,  he  had  no 
intention  of  yielding.  Yet  the  hinges  of  his 
knees  bent  automatically.  He  found  himself 
reaching  for  the  blacking  just  as  if  his  will  were 
paralyzed. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  liquor  rushing  to  his  head 
when  he  stooped.  Perhaps  it  was  the  madness 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

of  a  terror-stricken  rat  driven  into  a  corner. 
His  fear  broke  bounds,  leaped  into  action. 
Beaudry  saw  red.  With  both  hands  he  caught 
Charlton's  foot,  twisted  it  savagely,  and  flung 
the  man  head  over  heels  out  of  the  chair.  He 
snatched  up  the  bootblack's  stool  by  one  leg 
and  brought  it  crashing  down  on  the  head  of 
Meldrum.  The  ex-convict  went  down  as  if  he 
had  been  pole-axed. 

There  was  no  time  to  draw  guns,  no  time  to 
prepare  a  defense.  His  brain  on  fire  from  the 
liquor  he  had  drunk  and  his  overpowering  ter- 
ror, Beaudry  was  a  berserk  gone  mad  with  the 
lust  of  battle.  He  ran  amuck  like  a  maniac, 
using  the  stool  as  a  weapon  to  hammer  down 
the  heads  of  his  foes.  It  crashed  first  upon  one, 
now  on  another. 

Charlton  rushed  him  and  was  struck  down 
beside  Meldrum.  Hart,  flung  back  into  the 
cigar-case,  smashed  the  glass  into  a  thousand 
splinters.  Young  Rutherford  was  sent  spinning 
into  the  street. 

His  assailants  gave  way  before  Beaudry,  at 
first  slowly,  then  in  a  panic  of  haste  to  escape. 
He  drove  them  to  the  sidewalk,  flailing  away 
at  those  within  reach.  Chet  Fox  hurdled  in  his 
flight  a  burro  loaded  with  wood. 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Then,  suddenly  as  it  had  swept  over  Roy,  the 
brain-storm  passed.  The  mists  cleared  from  his 
eyes.  He  looked  down  at  the  leg  of  the  stool  in 
his  hand,  which  was  all  that  remained  of  it. 
He  looked  up  —  and  saw  Beulah  Rutherford  in 
the  street  astride  a  horse. 

She  spoke  to  her  brother,  who  had  drawn  a 
revolver  from  his  pocket.  "You  don't  need 
that  now,  Ned.  He's  through." 

Her  contemptuous  voice  stung  Roy.  "Why 
did  n't  they  leave  me  alone,  then?"  he  said  sul- 
lenly in  justification. 

The  girl  did  not  answer  him.  She  slipped 
from  the  horse  and  ran  into  the  arcade  with  the 
light  grace  that  came  of  perfect  health  and  the 
freedom  of  the  hills.  The  eyes  of  the  young 
man  followed  this  slim,  long-limbed  Diana  as 
she  knelt  beside  Charlton  and  lifted  his  bloody 
head  into  her  arms.  He  noticed  that  her  eyes 
burned  and  that  her  virginal  bosom  rose  and  fell 
in  agitation. 

None  the  less  she  gave  first  aid  with  a  busi- 
ness-like economy  of  motion.  "Bring  water, 
Ned,  —  and  a  doctor,"  she  snapped  crisply,  her 
handkerchief  pressed  against  the  wound. 

To  see  what  havoc  he  had  wrought  amazed 
Roy.  The  arcade  looked  as  if  a  cyclone  had 

213 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

swept  through  it.  The  cigar-stand  was  shattered 
beyond  repair,  its  broken  glass  strewn  every- 
where. The  chair  of  the  bootblack  had  been 
splintered  into  kindling  wood.  Among  the 
debris  sat  Meldrum  groaning,  both  hands  press- 
ing a  head  that  furiously  ached.  Brad  Charlton 
was  just  beginning  to  wake  up  to  his  surround- 
ings. 

A  crowd  had  miraculously  gathered  from 
nowhere.  The  fat  marshal  of  Battle  Butte  was 
puffing  up  the  street  a  block  away.  Beaudry 
judged  it  time  to  be  gone.  He  dropped  the  leg 
of  the  stool  and  strode  toward  the  hotel. 

Already  his  fears  were  active  again.  What 
would  the  hillmen  do  to  him  when  they  had  re- 
covered from  the  panic  into  which  his  madness 
had  thrown  them?  Would  they  start  for  him  at 
once?  Or  would  they  mark  one  more  score 
against  him  and  wait?  He  could  scarcely  keep 
his  feet  from  breaking  into  a  run  to  get  more 
quickly  from  the  vicinity  of  the  Silver  Dollar. 
He  longed  mightily  to  reach  the  protection  of 
Dave  DingwelTs  experience  and  debonair  sang 
froid. 

The  cattleman  had  not  yet  reached  the  hotel. 
Roy  went  up  to  their  room  at  once  and  locked 
himself  in.  He  sat  on  the  bed  with  a  revolver  in 

214 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

his  hand.  Now  that  it  was  all  over,  he  was 
trembling  like  an  aspen  leaf.  For  the  hundredth 
time  in  the  past  week  he  flung  at  himself  his  own 
contemptuous  scorn.  Why  was  the  son  of  John 
Beaudry  such  an  arrant  coward?  He  knew  that 
his  sudden  madness  and  its  consequences  had 
been  born  of  panic.  What  was  there  about  the 
quality  of  his  nerves  that  differed  from  those  of 
other  men?  Even  now  he  was  shivering  from 
the  dread  that  his  enemies  might  come  and 
break  down  the  door  to  get  at  him. 

He  heard  the  jocund  whistle  of  Dingwell  as  the 
cattleman  came  along  the  corridor.  Swiftly  he 
pocketed  the  revolver  and  unlocked  the  door. 
When  Dave  entered,  Roy  was  lying  on  the  bed 
pretending  to  read  a  newspaper. 

If  the  older  man  noticed  that  the  paper  shook, 
he  ignored  it. 

"What's  this  I  hear,  son,  about  you  falling 
off  the  water-wagon  and  filling  the  hospital?" 
His  gay  grin  challenged  affectionately  the  boy 
on  the  bed.  "Don't  you  know  you're  liable  to 
give  the  new  firm,  Dingwell  &  Beaudry,  a  bad 
name  if  you  pull  off  insurrections  like  that?  The 
city  dads  are  talking  some  of  building  a  new 
wing  to  the  accident  ward  to  accommodate  your 
victims.  Taxes  will  go  up  and  — 

215 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Roy  smiled  wanly.  "You've  heard  about  it, 
then?" 

"Heard  about  it!  Say,  son,  I've  heard  noth- 
ing else  for  the  last  twenty  minutes.  You  're  the 
talk  of  the  town.  I  did  n't  know  you  was  such 
a  bad  actor."  Dave  stopped  to  break  into  a 
chuckle.  "Wow!  You  certainly  hit  the  high 
spots.  Friend  Meldrum  and  Charlton  and  our 
kind  host  Hart  —  all  laid  out  at  one  clatter. 
I  never  was  lucky.  Here  I  would  n't  'a'  missed 
seeing  you  pull  off  this  Samson  encore  for  three 
cows  on  the  hoof,  and  I  get  in  too  late  for  the 
show." 

"They're  not  hurt  badly,  are  they?"  asked 
Beaudry,  a  little  timidly. 

Dave  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  little  smile. 
"You  don't  want  to  go  back  and  do  the  job 
more  thorough,  do  you?  No  need,  son.  Mel- 
drum  and  Charlton  are  being  patched  up  in  the 
hospital  and  Hart  is  at  Doc  White's  having  the 
glass  picked  out  of  his  geography.  I've  talked 
with  some  of  the  also  rans,  and  they  tell  me 
unanimous  that  it  was  the  most  thorough 
clean-up  they  have  participated  in  recently." 

"What  will  they  do  —  after  they  get  over 
it?" 

Dingwell  grinned.  "Search  me!  But  I'll 
816 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

tell  you  what  they  won't  do.  They'll  not  in- 
vite you  to  take  another  drink  right  away. 
I'll  bet  a  hat  on  that.  .  .  .  Come  on,  son.  We 
got  to  hit  the  trail  for  home." 


Chapter  XVII 

Roy  Improves  the  Shining  Hours 

THE  tender  spring  burnt  into  crisp  summer. 
Lean  hill  cattle  that  had  roughed  through 
the  winter  storms  lost  their  shaggy  look  and 
began  to  fill  out.  For  there  had  been  early 
rains  and  the  bunch  grass  was  succulent  this 
year. 

Roy  went  about  learning  his  new  business 
with  an  energy  that  delighted  his  partner.  He 
was  eager  to  learn  and  was  not  too  proud  to  ask 
questions.  The  range  conditions,  the  breeding 
of  cattle,  and  transportation  problems  were  all 
studied  by  him.  Within  a  month  or  two  he  had 
become  a  fair  horseman  and  could  rope  a  steer 
inexpertly. 

Dingwell  threw  out  a  suggestion  one  day  in 
his  characteristic  casual  manner.  The  two  men 
were  riding  a  line  fence  and  Roy  had  just  missed 
a  shot  at  a  rabbit. 

"Better  learn  to  shoot,  son.  Take  an  hour 
off  every  day  and  practice.  You  had  n't  ought 
to  have  missed  that  cottontail.  What  you  want 
is  to  fire  accurately,  just  as  soon  as  yore  gun 

218 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

jumps  to  the  shoulder.  I  can  teach  you  a  wrinkle 
or  two  with  a  six-gun.  Then  every  time  you 
see  a  rattler,  take  a  crack  at  it.  Keep  in  form. 
You  might  need  to  bend  a  gun  one  of  these  days." 

His  partner  understood  what  that  last  veiled 
allusion  meant.  The  weeks  had  slipped  away 
since  the  fracas  in  front  of  the  Silver  Dollar. 
The  enemy  had  made  no  move.  But  cowpunch- 
ers  returning  to  the  ranch  from  town  reported 
that  both  Meldrum  and  Charlton  had  sworn 
revenge.  It  was  an  even  bet  that  either  one  of 
them  would  shoot  on  sight. 

Beaudry  took  Dave's  advice.  Every  day  he 
rode  out  to  a  wash  and  carried  with  him  a  rifle 
and  a  revolver.  He  practiced  for  rapidity  as 
well  as  accuracy.  He  learned  how  to  fire  from 
the  hip,  how  to  empty  a  revolver  in  less  than 
two  seconds,  how  to  shoot  lying  down,  and  how 
to  hit  a  mark  either  from  above  or  below. 

The  young  man  never  went  to  town  alone. 
He  stuck  close  to  the  ranch.  The  first  weeks  had 
been  full  of  stark  terror  lest  he  might  find  one  of 
his  enemies  waiting  for  him  behind  a  clump  of 
prickly  pear  or  hidden  in  the  mesquite  of  some 
lonely  wash.  He  was  past  that  stage,  but  his 
nerves  were  still  jumpy.  It  was  impossible  for 
him  to  forget  that  at  least  three  men  were 

219 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

deadly  enemies  of  his  and  would  stamp  out  his 
life  as  they  would  that  of  a  wolf.  Each  morning 
he  wakened  with  a  little  shock  of  dread.  At  night 
he  breathed  relief  for  a  few  hours  of  safety. 

Meanwhile  Dave  watched  him  with  an  in- 
dolent carelessness  of  manner  that  masked  his 
sympathy.  If  it  had  been  possible,  he  would 
have  taken  the  burden  on  his  own  broad,  com- 
petent shoulders.  But  this  was  not  in  Ding  well's 
code.  He  had  been  brought  up  in  that  outdoor 
school  of  the  West  where  a  man  has  to  game  out 
his  own  feuds.  As  the  cattleman  saw  it,  Roy 
had  to  go  through  now  just  as  his  father  had 
done  seventeen  years  before. 

In  town  one  day  Dave  met  Pat  Ryan  and 
had  a  talk  with  him  over  dinner.  A  remark 
made  by  the  little  cowpuncher  surprised  his 
friend.  Dingwell  looked  at  him  with  narrowed, 
inquiring  eyes. 

The  Irishman  nodded.  "Ye  thought  you 
were  the  only  one  that  knew  it?  Well,  I'm  on, 
too,  Dave." 

"That's  not  what  I  hear  everywhere  else, 
Pat,"  answered  the  cattleman,  still  studying  the 
other.  "Go  down  the  street  and  mention  the 
name  of  Royal  Beaudry  —  ask  any  one  if  he  is 
game.  What  will  you  get  for  a  reply?" 

220 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Without  the  least  hesitation  Ryan  spoke  out. 
"You'll  hear  that  he's  got  more  guts  than  any 
man  in  Washington  County  —  that  he  does- 
n't know  what  fear  is.  Then  likely  you'll  be 
told  it's  natural  enough,  since  he's  the  son  of 
Jack  Beaudry,  the  fighting  sheriff.  Ever-rybody 
believes  that  excipt  you  and  me,  Dave.  We 
know  better." 

"What  do  we  know,  Pat? " 

"We  know  that  the  bye  is  up  against  a  man- 
size  job  and  is  scared  stiff." 

"Hmp!  Was  he  scared  when  he  licked  a 
dozen  men  at  the  Silver  Dollar  and  laid  out 
for  repairs  three  of  the  best  fighters  in  New 
Mexico?" 

"You're  shouting  right  he  was,  Dave.  No 
man  alive  could  'a'  done  it  if  he  had  n't  been 
crazy  with  fright." 

Dingwell  laughed.  "Hope  I'm  that  way, 
then,  when  I  get  into  my  next  tight  place."  He 
added  after  a  moment:  "The  trouble  with  the 
boy  is  that  he  has  too  much  imagination.  He 
makes  his  own  private  little  hell  beforehand." 

"I  reckon  he  never  learned  to  ride  herd  on  his 
fears." 

"Jack  Beaudry  told  me  about  him  onc't. 
The  kid  was  born  after  his  mother  had  been 

221 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

worrying  herself  sick  about  Jack.  She  never 
could  tell  when  he'd  be  brought  home  dead. 
Well,  Roy  inherited  fear.  I've  noticed  that 
when  a  sidewinder  rattles,  he  jumps.  Same 
way,  when  any  one  comes  up  and  surprises  him. 
It's  what  you  might  call  constitootional  with 
him." 

"Yep.  That's  how  I've  got  it  figured. 
But  —  "  Pat  hesitated  and  looked  meditatively 
out  of  the  window. 

"All  right.  Onload  yore  mind.  Gimme  the 
run  of  the  pen  just  as  yore  thoughts  happen," 
suggested  the  cattleman. 

"Well,  I'm  thinking  —  that  he's  been  lucky, 
Dave.  But  soon  as  Tighe's  tools  guess  what  we 
know,  something's  going  to  happen  to  Beau- 
dry.  He's  got  them  buffaloed  now.  But  Charl- 
ton  and  Meldrum  ain't  going  to  quit.  Can  you 
tell  me  how  your  frind  will  stand  the  acid  next 
time  hell  pops?" 

Dave  shook  his  head.  "I  cannot.  That's  just 
what  is  worrying  me.  There  are  men  that  have 
to  be  lashed  on  by  ridicule  to  stand  the.  gaff. 
But  Roy  is  not  like  that.  I  reckon  he's  all  the 
time  flogging  himself  like  the  penitentes.  He's 
sick  with  shame  because  he  can't  go  out  grin- 
ning to  meet  his  troubles.  .  .  .  There  ain't  a 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

thing  I  can  do  for  him.  He's  got  to  play  out  his 
hand  alone." 

"Sure  he  has,  and  if  the  luck  breaks  right, 
I  would  n't  put  it  past  him  to  cash  in  a  winner. 
He's  gamer  than  most  of  us  because  he  won't 
quit  even  when  the  divvle  of  terror  is  riding  his 
back." 

"Another  point  in  his  favor  is  that  he  learns 
easily.  When  he  first  came  out  to  the  Lazy 
Double  D,  he  was  afraid  of  horses.  He  has  got 
over  that.  Give  him  another  month  and  he'll 
be  a  pretty  fair  shot.  Up  till  the  time  he  struck 
this  country,  Roy  had  lived  a  soft  city  life. 
He's  beginning  to  toughen.  The  things  that 
scare  a  man  are  those  that  are  mysteries  to  him. 
Any  kid  will  fight  his  own  brother  because  he 
knows  all  about  him,  but  he's  plumb  shy  about 
tackling  a  strange  boy.  Well,  that's  how  it  is 
with  Roy.  He  has  got  the  notion  that  Meldrum 
and  Charlton  are  terrors,  but  now  he  has  licked 
them  onc't,  he  won't  figure  them  out  as  so 
bad." 

"He  did  n't  exactly  lick  them  in  a  stand-up 
fight,  Dave." 

"  No,  he  just  knocked  them  down  and  tromped 
on  them  and  put  them  out  of  business,"  agreed 
Ding  well  dryly. 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

The  eyes  of  the  little  Irishman  twinkled. 
"Brad  Charlton  is  giving  it  out  that  it  was  an 
accident." 

"That's  what  I'd  call  it,  too,  if  I  was  Brad," 
assented  the  cattleman  with  a  grin.  "But  if  we 
could  persuade  Roy  to  put  over  about  one  more 
accident  like  that,  I  reckon  Huerfano  Park 
would  let  him  alone." 

"While  Jess  Tighe  is  living?" 

Dingwell  fell  grave.  "I'd  forgotten  Tighe. 
No,  I  expect  the  kid  had  better  keep  his  weather 
eye  peeled  as  long  as  that  castor-oil  smile  of 
Jess  is  working." 


Chapter  XVIII 
Rutherford  Answers  Questions 

BEULAH  RUTHERFORD  took  back  with 
her  to  Huerf  ano  Park  an  almost  intolerable 
resentment  against  the  conditions  of  her  life. 
She  had  the  family  capacity  for  sullen  silence, 
and  for  weeks  a  kind  of  despairing  rage  sim- 
mered in  her  heart.  She  was  essentially  of  a  very 
direct,  simple  nature,  clear  as  Big  Creek  where 
it  tumbled  down  from  the  top  of  the  world  to- 
ward the  foothills.  An  elemental  honesty  stirred 
in  her.  It  was  necessary  to  her  happiness  that 
she  keep  her  own  self-respect  and  be  able  to 
approve  those  she  loved. 

Just  now  she  could  do  neither.  The  atmos- 
phere of  the  ranch  seemed  to  stifle  her.  When 
she  rode  out  into  a  brave,  clean  world  of  sun- 
shine, the  girl  carried  her  shame  along.  Ever 
since  she  could  remember,  outlaws  and  mis- 
creants had  slipped  furtively  about  the  sub- 
urbs of  her  life.  The  Rutherfords  themselves 
were  a  hard  and  savage  breed.  To  their  door 
had  come  more  than  one  night  rider  flying  for 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

his  life,  and  Beulah  had  accepted  the  family 
tradition  of  hospitality  to  those  at  odds  with 
society. 

A  fierce,  untamed  girl  of  primitive  instincts, 
she  was  the  heritor  of  the  family  temperament. 
But  like  threads  of  gold  there  ran  through  the 
warp  of  her  being  a  fineness  that  was  her  salva- 
tion. She  hated  passionately  cruelty  and  false- 
hood and  deceit.  All  her  life  she  had  walked 
near  pitch  and  had  never  been  defiled. 

Hal  Rutherford  was  too  close  to  her  not  to 
feel  the  estrangement  of  her  spirit.  He  watched 
her  anxiously,  and  at  last  one  morning  he  spoke. 
She  was  standing  on  the  porch  waiting  for  Jeff 
to  bring  Blacky  when  Rutherford  came  out  and 
put  his  arm  around  her  shoulder. 

"What  is  it,  honey?"  he  asked  timidly. 

"It's  —  everything,"  she  answered,  her  gaze 
still  on  the  distant  hills. 

"You  have  n't  quarreled  with  Brad?" 

"No  —  and  I'm  not  likely  to  if  he'll  let  me 
alone." 

Her  father  did  not  press  the  point.  If  Brad 
and  she  had  fallen  out,  the  young  man  would 
have  to  make  his  own  amende. 

"None  of  the  boys  been  deviling  you?" 

"No." 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Aren't  you  going  to  tell  dad  about  it, 
Boots?" 

Presently  her  dark  eyes  swept  round  to  his. 
"  Why  did  you  say  that  you  did  n't  know  any- 
thing about  the  Western  Express  robbery?" 

He  looked  steadily  at  her.  "I  didn't  say 
that,  Beulah.  What  I  said  was  that  I  did  n't 
know  where  the  stolen  gold  was  hidden  —  and 
I  did  n't." 

"That  was  just  an  evasion.  You  meant  me 
to  think  that  we  had  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  —  the  robbery." 

"That's  right.  I  did." 

"And  all  the  time — "  She  broke  off,  a  sob 
choking  her  throat. 

"I  knew  who  did  it.  That's  correct.  But  I 
was  n't  a  party  to  the  robbery.  I  knew  nothing 
about  it  till  afterward." 

"I've  always  believed  everything  you've 
told  me,  dad.  And  now  — " 

He  felt  doubt  in  her  shaken  voice.  She  did 
not  know  what  to  think  now.  Rutherford  set 
himself  to  clear  away  her  suspicions.  He  chose 
to  do  it  by  telling  the  exact  truth. 

"Now  you  may  still  believe  me,  honey.  The 
robbery  was  planned  by  Tighe.  I'll  not  men- 
tion the  names  of  those  in  it.  The  day  after  it 

227 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

was  pulled  off,  I  heard  of  it  for  the  first  time. 
Dave  Dingwell  knew  too  much.  To  protect  my 
friends  I  had  to  bring  him  up  here.  Legally  I  'm 
guilty  of  abduction  and  of  the  train  robbery, 
too,  because  I  butted  in  after  the  hold-up  and 
protected  the  guilty  ones.  I  even  tried  to  save 
for  them  the  gold  they  had  taken." 

"Were  —  any  of  the  boys  in  it,  dad?"  she 
quavered. 

"One  of  them.  I  won't  tell  you  which." 

"And  Brad?" 

"We're  not  giving  names,  Boots." 

"Oh,  well!  I  know  he  was  one  of  them."  She 
slipped  her  arm  within  her  father's  and  gave 
his  hand  a  little  pressure.  "I'm  glad  you  told 
me,  just  the  same,  dad.  I'd  been  thinking  — 
worse  things  about  you." 

"That's  all  right,  honey.  Now  you  won't 
worry  any  more,  will  you?" 

"I  don't  know That's  not  all  that 

troubles  me.  I  feel  bad  when  the  boys  drink  and 
brawl.  That  attack  on  Mr.  Beaudry  at  Battle 
Butte  was  disgraceful,"  she  flamed.  "I  don't 
care  if  he  did  come  up  here  spying.  Why  can't 
they  let  him  alone?" 

He  passed  a  hand  in  a  troubled  fashion 
through  his  grizzled  hair.  "You  can  bet  our 

228 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

boys  won't  touch  him  again,  Boots.  IVe  laid 
the  law  down.  But  I  can't  answer  for  Tighe. 
He'll  do  him  a  meanness  if  he  can,  and  he'll  do 
it  quicker  since  I've  broken  off  with  him  be- 
cause you  helped  Dingwell  and  Beaudry  to  es- 
cape. I  don't  know  about  Brad." 

"I  told  Brad  if  he  touched  him  again,  I 
would  never  speak  to  him." 

"Maybe  that  will  hold  him  hitched,  then. 
Anyhow,  I  'm  not  going  to  make  the  young  fel- 
low trouble.  I'd  rather  let  sleeping  dogs  lie." 

Beulah  pressed  her  arm  against  his.  "I  have 
n't  been  fair  to  you,  dad.  I  might  have  known 
you  would  do  right." 

"I  aim  to  stay  friends  with  my  little  girl  no 
matter  what  happens.  Yore  mother  gave  you 
into  my  hands  when  she  was  dying  and  I  prom- 
ised to  be  mother  and  father  to  you.  Yore  own 
father  was  my  brother  Anse.  He  died  before 
you  were  born.  I've  been  the  only  dad  you 
ever  had,  and  I  reckon  you  know  you've  been 
more  to  me  than  any  of  my  own  boys." 

"You  shouldn't  say  that,"  she  corrected 
quickly.  "I'm  a  girl,  and,  of  course,  you  spoil 
me  more.  That's  all." 

She  gave  him  a  ferocious  little  hug  and  went 
quickly  into  the  house.  Happiness  had  swept 

229 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

through  her  veins  like  the  exquisite  flush  of 
dawn.  Her  lustrous  eyes  were  wells  of  glad 
tears. 

The  owner  of  the  horse  ranch  stood  on  the 
porch  and  watched  a  rider  coming  out  of  the 
gulch  toward  him.  The  man  descended  heavily 
from  his  horse  and  moved  down  the  path. 
Rutherford  eyed  him  grimly. 

"Well,  I'm  back,"  the  dismounted  horse- 
man said  surlily. 

"I  see  you  are." 

"Got  out  of  the  hospital  Thursday." 

"Hope  you've  made  up  yore  mind  to  be- 
have, Dan." 

"It  does  n't  hurt  a  man  to  take  a  drink  onc't 
in  a  while." 

"Depends  on  the  man.  It  put  you  in  the 
hospital." 

Meldrum  ripped  out  a  sudden  oath.  "Wait. 
Just  wait  till  I  get  that  pink-ear.  I  '11  drill  him 
full  of  holes  right." 

"By  God,  you'll  not!"  Rutherford's  voice 
was  like  the  snap  of  a  whip.  "Try  it.  Try  it. 
I  '11  hunt  you  down  like  a  wolf  and  riddle  yore 


carcass." 


In  amazement  the  ex-convict  stared  at  him. 
What's  ailin'  you,  Rutherford?" 
230 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"I'm  through  with  you  and  Tighe.  You'll 
stop  making  trouble  or  you'll  get  out  of  here. 
I  'm  going  to  clean  up  the  park  —  going  to  make 
it  a  place  where  decent  folks  can  live.  You've 
got  yore  warning  now,  Dan.  Walk  a  straight 
chalk-line  or  hit  the  trail." 

"You  can't  talk  that  way  to  me,  Rutherford. 
I  know  too  much,"  threatened  Meldrum,  baring 
his  teeth. 

"Don't  think  it  for  a  minute,  Dan.  Who  is 
going  to  take  yore  word  against  mine?  I've  got 
the  goods  on  you.  I  can  put  you  through  for 
rustling  any  time  I  have  a  mind  to  move.  And 
if  you  don't  let  young  Beaudry  alone,  I'll  do 
it." 

"Am  I  the  only  man  that  ever  rustled?  Ain't 
there  others  in  the  park?  I  reckon  you've  done 
some  night-riding  yore  own  self." 

"Some,"  drawled  Rutherford,  with  a  grim 
little  smile.  "By  and  large,  I've  raised  a  con- 
siderable crop  of  hell.  But  I  'm  reforming  in  my 
old  age.  New  Mexico  has  had  a  change  of 
heart.  Guns  are  going  out,  Meldrum,  and  little 
red  schoolhouses  are  coming  in.  We've  got  to 
keep  up  with  the  fashions." 

"Hmp!  Schoolhouses!  I  know  what's  ailin' 
you.  Since  Anse  Rutherford's  girl  — ' 

231 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"You're  off  the  reservation,  Dan,"  warned 
the  rancher,  and  again  his  low  voice  had  the 
sting  of  cactus  thorns  in  it. 

Meldrum  dropped  that  subject  promptly. 
"Is  Buck  going  to  join  this  Sunday-School  of 
yours?"  he  jeered.  "And  all  the  boys?" 

"That's  the  programme.  Won't  you  come 
in,  too?" 

"And  Jess  Tighe.  He'll  likely  be  one  of  the 
teachers." 

*    "You'd  better  ask  him.   He  has  n't  notified 
me." 

"Hell!  You  and  yore  kin  have  given  the 
name  to  deviltry  in  this  country.  Mothers 
scare  their  kids  by  telling  them  the  Rutherfords 
will  git  them." 

"Fact.  But  that's  played  out.  My  boys  are 
grown  up  and  are  at  the  turn  of  the  trail.  It  hit 
me  plumb  in  the  face  when  you  fools  pulled  off 
that  express  robbery.  It's  a  piece  of  big  luck 
you're  not  all  headed  for  the  penitentiary.  I 
know  when  I've  had  enough.  So  now  I  quit." 

"All  right.  Quit.  But  we  have  n't  all  got  to 
go  to  the  mourner's  bench  with  you,  have  we? 
You  can  travel  yore  trail  and  we  can  go  ours, 
can't  we?" 

"Not  when  we're  on  the  same  range,  Dan. 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

What  I  say  goes."  The  eyes  of  Rutherford 
bored  into  the  cruel  little  shifty  ones  of  the  bad 
man.  "Take  yore  choice,  Dan.  It's  quit  yore 
deviltry  or  leave  this  part  of  the  country." 

"Who  elected  you  czar  of  Huerfano  Park?" 
demanded  Meldrum,  furious  with  anger. 

He  glared  at  the  ranchman  impotently, 
turned  away  with  a  mumbled  oath,  and  went 
back  with  jingling  spurs  to  his  horse. 


Chapter  XIX 

Beaudry  Blows  a  Smoke  Wreath 

ROYAL  BEAUDRY  carried  about  with  him 
in  his  work  on  the  Lazy  Double  D  persist- 
ent memories  of  the  sloe-eyed  gypsy  who  had  re- 
cently played  so  large  a  part  in  his  life.  Men  of 
imagination  fall  in  love,  not  with  a  woman,  but 
with  the  mystery  they  make  of  her.  The  young 
cattleman  was  not  yet  a  lover,  but  a  rumor  of 
the  future  began  to  murmur  in  his  ears.  Beulah 
Rutherford  was  on  the  surface  very  simple  and 
direct,  but  his  thoughts  were  occupied  with  the 
soul  of  her.  What  was  the  girl  like  whose  ac- 
tions functioned  in  coujjlge  and  independence 
and  harsh  hostility? 

Life  had  imposed  on  her  a  hard  finish.  But 
it  was  impossible  for  Roy  to  believe  that  this 
slender,  tawny  child  of  the  wind  and  the  sun 
could  at  heart  be  bitter  and  suspicious.  He  had 
seen  the  sweet  look  of  her  dark-lashed  eyes 
turned  in  troubled  appeal  upon  her  father. 
There  had  been  one  hour  when  he  had  looked 
into  her  face  and  found  it  radiant,  all  light  and 
response  and  ecstasy.  The  emotion  that  had 

234 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

pulsed  through  her  then  had  given  the  lie  to 
the  sullen  silence  upon  which  she  fell  back  as  a 
defense.  If  the  gods  were  good  to  her  some  day, 
the  red  flower  of  passion  would  bloom  on  her 
cheeks  and  the  mists  that  dulled  her  spirit 
would  melt  in  the  warm  sunshine  of  love. 

So  the  dreamer  wove  the  web  of  his  fancy 
about  her,  and  the  mystery  that  was  Beulah 
Rutherford  lay  near  his  thoughts  when  he 
walked  or  rode  or  ate  or  talked. 

Nor  did  it  lessen  his  interest  in  her  that  he 
felt  she  despised  him.  The  flash  of  her  scornful 
eyes  still  stung  him.  He  was  beyond  caring 
whether  she  thought  him  a  spy.  He  knew  that 
the  facts  justified  him  in  his  attempt  to  save 
Ding  well.  But  he  writhed  that  she  should  be- 
lieve him  a  coward.  It  came  too  close  home. 
And  since  the  affray  in  the  arcade,  no  doubt  she 
set  him  down,  too,  as  a  drunken  rowdy. 

He  made  the  usual  vain  valorous  resolutions 
of  youth  to  show  her  his  heroic  quality.  These 
served  at  least  one  good  purpose.  If  he  could 
not  control  his  fears,  he  could  govern  his  ac- 
tions. Roy  forced  himself  by  sheer  will  power 
to  ride  alone  into  Battle  Butte  once  a  week. 
Without  hurry  he  went  about  his  business  up 
and  down  Mission  Street. 

235 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

The  town  watched  him  and  commented. 
"Got  sand  in  his  craw,  young  Beaudry  has," 
was  the  common  verdict.  Men  wondered  what 
would  happen  when  he  met  Charlton  and  Mel- 
drum.  Most  of  them  would  have  backed  John 
Beaudry's  son  both  in  their  hopes  and  in  their 
opinion  of  the  result. 

Into  saloons  and  gambling-houses  word  was 
carried,  and  from  there  to  the  hillmen  of  the 
park  by  industrious  peddlers  of  trouble,  that 
the  young  cattleman  from  the  Lazy  Double  D 
could  be  found  by  his  enemies  heeled  for  busi- 
ness whenever  they  wanted  him. 

Charlton  kept  morosely  to  the  park.  If  he  had 
had  nothing  to  consider  except  his  own  inclina- 
tion, he  would  have  slapped  the  saddle  upon  a 
cowpony  and  ridden  in  to  Battle  Butte  at  once. 
But  Beulah  had  laid  an  interdict  upon  him.  For 
a  year  he  had  been  trying  to  persuade  her  to 
marry  him,  and  he  knew  that  he  must  say  good- 
bye to  his  hopes  if  he  fought  with  his  enemy. 

It  was  fear  that  kept  Meldrum  at  home.  He 
had  been  a  killer,  but  the  men  he  had  killed  had 
been  taken  at  advantage.  It  was  one  thing  to 
shoot  this  Beaudry  cub  down  from  ambush.  It 
was  another  to  meet  him  in  the  open.  More- 
over, he  knew  the  Rutherfords.  The  owner  of 

236 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

the  horse  ranch  had  laid  the  law  down  to  him. 
No  chance  shot  from  the  chaparral  was  to  cut 
down  Dingwell's  partner. 

The  ex-convict  listened  to  the  whispers  of 
Tighe.  He  brooded  over  them,  but  he  did  not  act 
on  them.  His  alcohol-dulled  brain  told  him  that 
he  had  reached  the  limit  of  public  sufferance. 
One  more  killing  by  him,  and  he  would  pay  the 
penalty  at  the  hands  of  the  law.  When  he  took 
his  revenge,  it  must  be  done  so  secretly  that  no 
evidence  could  connect  him  with  the  crime.  He 
must,  too,  have  an  alibi  acceptable  to  Hal 
Rutherford. 

Meldrum  carried  with  him  to  Battle  Butte, 
on  his  first  trip  after  the  arcade  affair,  a  fixed 
determination  to  avoid  Beaudry.  In  case  he 
met  him,  he  would  pass  without  speaking. 

But  all  of  Meldrum's  resolutions  were  apt  to 
become  modified  by  subsequent  inhibitions.  In 
company  with  one  or  two  cronies  he  made  a 
tour  of  the  saloons  of  the  town.  At  each  of  them 
he  said,  "Have  another,"  and  followed  his  own 
advice  to  show  good  faith. 

On  one  of  these  voyages  from  port  to  port  the 
bad  man  from  Chicito  Canon  sighted  a  tall, 
lean-flanked,  long-legged  brown  man.  He  was 
crossing  the  street  so  that  the  party  came  face 

237 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

to  face  with  him  at  the  apex  of  a  right  angle. 
The  tanned  stranger  in  corduroys,  hickory 
shirt,  and  pinched-in  hat  of  the  range  rider  was 
Royal  Beaudry.  It  was  with  a  start  of  surprise 
that  Meldrum  recognized  him.  His  enemy  was 
no  longer  a  "pink-ear."  There  was  that  in  his 
stride,  his  garb,  and  the  steady  look  of  his  eye 
which  told  of  a  growing  confidence  and  com- 
petence. He  looked  like  a  horseman  of  the 
plains,  fit  for  any  emergency  that  might  con- 
front him. 

Taken  at  advantage  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
meeting,  Meldrum  gave  ground  with  a  muttered 
oath.  The  young  cattleman  nodded  to  the  trio 
and  kept  on  his  way.  None  of  the  others  knew 
that  his  heart  was  hammering  a  tattoo  against 
his  ribs  or  that  queer  little  chills  chased  each 
other  down  his  spine. 

Chet  Fox  ventured  a  sly  dig  at  the  ex-con- 
vict. "Looks  a  right  healthy  sick  man,  Dan." 

"Who  said  he  was  sick?"  growled  Meldrum. 

"Did  n't  you-all  say  he  was  good  as  dead?" 

"A  man  can  change  his  mind,  Chet,  can't 
he?"  jeered  Hart. 

The  blotched  face  of  the  bad  man  grew  pur- 
ple. "That'll  be  about  enough  from  both  of 
you.  But  I'll  say  this:  when  I  get  ready  to 

238 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

settle  with  Mr.  Beaudry  you  can  order  his 
coffin." 

Nevertheless,  Meldrum  had  the  humiliating 
sense  that  he  had  failed  to  live  up  to  his  repu- 
tation as  a  killer.  He  had  promised  Battle  Butte 
to  give  it  something  to  talk  about,  but  he  had 
not  meant  to  let  the  whisper  pass  that  he  was 
a  four-flusher.  His  natural  recourse  was  to 
further  libations.  These  made  for  a  sullen,  in- 
growing rage  as  the  day  grew  older. 

More  than  one  well-meaning  citizen  carried 
to  Roy  the  superfluous  warning  that  Meldrum 
was  in  town  and  drinking  hard.  The  young  man 
thanked  them  quietly  without  comment.  His 
reticence  gave  the  impression  of  strength. 

But  Beaudry  felt  far  from  easy  hi  mind.  A 
good  deal  of  water  had  flowed  under  the  Big 
Creek  bridge  since  the  time  when  he  had  looked 
under  the  bed  at  nights  for  burglars.  He  had 
schooled  himself  not  to  yield  to  the  impulses  of 
his  rabbit  heart,  but  the  unexpected  clatter  of 
hoofs  still  set  his  pulses  a-flutter.  Why  had 
fate  snatched  so  gentle  a  youth  from  his  law 
desk  and  flung  him  into  such  turbid  waters  to 
sink  or  swim?  All  he  had  asked  was  peace  — 
friends,  books,  a  quiet  life.  By  some  ironic  quirk 
he  found  himself  in  scenes  of  battle  and  tur- 

239 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

moil.  As  the  son  of  John  Beaudry  he  was  ex- 
pected to  show  an  unflawed  nerve,  whereas  his 
eager  desire  was  to  run  away  and  hide. 

He  resisted  the  first  panicky  incitement  to 
fly  back  to  the  Lazy  Double  D,  and  went  dog- 
gedly about  the  business  that  had  brought  him 
to  Battle  Butte.  Roy  had  come  to  meet  a  cat- 
tle-buyer from  Denver  and  the  man  had  wired 
that  he  would  be  in  on  the  next  train.  Mean- 
while Beaudry  had  to  see  the  blacksmith,  the 
feed-store  manager,  the  station  agent,  and  sev- 
eral others. 

This  kept  him  so  busy  that  he  reached  the 
station  only  just  in  time  to  meet  the  incoming 
train.  He  introduced  himself  to  the  buyer,  cap- 
tured his  suitcase,  and  turned  to  lead  the  way 
to  the  rig. 

Meldrum  lurched  forward  to  intercept  him. 
"  Shus'  a  moment." 

Roy  went  white.  He  knew  the  crisis  was  upon 
him.  The  right  hand  of  the  hillman  was  hidden 
under  the  breast  of  his  coat.  Even  the  cattle- 
buyer  from  Denver  knew  what  was  in  that 
hand  and  edged  toward  the  train.  For  this 
ruffian  was  plainly  working  himself  into  a  rage 
sufficient  to  launch  murder. 

"Yore  father  railroaded  me  to  the  peniten- 
240 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

tiary  —  cooked  up  test'mony  against  me.  You 
bust  me  with  a  club  when  I  was  n't  looking. 
Here's  where  I  git  even.  See?" 

The  imminence  of  tragedy  had  swept  the 
space  about  them  empty  of  people.  Roy  knew 
with  a  sinking  heart  that  it  was  between  him 
and  the  hillman  to  settle  this  alone.  He  had 
been  caught  with  the  suitcase  in  his  right  hand, 
so  that  he  was  practically  trapped  unarmed. 
Before  he  could  draw  his  revolver,  Meldrum 
would  be  pumping  lead. 

Two  months  ago  under  similar  circumstances 
terror  had  paralyzed  Roy's  thinking  power. 
Now  his  brain  functioned  in  spite  of  his  fear. 
He  was  shaken  to  the  center  of  his  being,  but  he 
was  not  in  panic.  Immediately  he  set  himself 
to  play  the  poor  cards  he  found  in  his  hand. 

"Liar!"  Beaudry  heard  a  chill  voice  say  and 
knew  it  was  his  own.  "Liar  on  both  counts! 
My  father  sent  you  up  because  you  were  a 
thief.  I  beat  your  head  off  because  you  are  a 
bully.  Listen!"  Roy  shot  the  last  word  out  in 
crescendo  to  forestall  the  result  of  a  convulsive 
movement  of  the  hand  beneath  his  enemy's 
coat.  "Listen,  if  you  want  to  live  the  day  out, 
you  yellow  coyote!" 

Beaudry  had  scored  his  first  point  —  to  gain 
241 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

time  for  his  argument  to  get  home  to  the  sodden 
brain.  Dave  Dingwell  had  told  him  that  most 
men  were  afraid  of  something,  though  some  hid 
it  better  than  others;  and  he  had  added  that 
Dan  Meldrum  had  the  murderer's  dread  lest 
vengeance  overtake  him  unexpectedly.  Roy 
knew  now  that  his  partner  had  spoken  the  true 
word.  At  that  last  stinging  sentence,  alarm  had 
jumped  to  the  blear  eyes  of  the  former  convict. 

"  Whadjamean?  "  demanded  Meldrum  thickly, 
the  menace  of  horrible  things  in  his  voice. 

"Mean?  Why,  this.  You  came  here  to  kill 
me,  but  you  have  n't  the  nerve  to  do  it.  You  've 
reached  the  end  of  your  rope,  Dan  Meldrum. 
You're  a  killer,  but  you'll  never  kill  again. 
Murder  me,  and  the  law  would  hang  you  high 
as  Haman  —  if  it  ever  got  a  chance." 

The  provisional  clause  came  out  with  a  little 
pause  between  each  word  to  stress  the  meaning. 
The  drunken  man  caught  at  it  to  spur  his  rage. 

"  Hmp !  Mean  you  're  man  enough  to  beat  the 
law  to  it?" 

Beaudry  managed  to  get  out  a  derisive  laugh. 
"Oh,  no!  Not  when  I  have  a  suitcase  in  my 
right  hand  and  you  have  the  drop  on  me.  I 
can't  help  myself  —  and  twenty  men  see  it." 

"Think  they'll  help  you?"  Meldrum  swept 
242 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

his  hand  toward  the  frightened  loungers  and 
railroad  officials.  His  revolver  was  out  in  the 
open  now.  He  let  its  barrel  waver  in  a  semi- 
circle of  defiance. 

"No.  They  won't  help  me,  but  they'll  hang 
you.  There's  no  hole  where  you  can  hide  that 
they  won't  find  you.  Before  night  you'll  be 
swinging  underneath  the  big  live-oak  on  the 
plaza.  That's  a  prophecy  for  you  to  swallow, 
you  four-flushing  bully." 

It  went  home  like  an  arrow.  The  furtive 
eyes  of  the  killer  slid  sideways  to  question  this 
public  which  had  scattered  so  promptly  to  save 
itself.  Would  the  mob  turn  on  him  later  and 
destroy  him? 

Young  Beaudry's  voice  flowed  on.  "Even  if 
you  reached  the  hills,  you  would  be  doomed. 
Tighe  can't  save  you  —  and  he  would  n't  try. 
Rutherford  would  wash  his  hands  of  you. 
They'll  drag  you  back  from  your  hole." 

The  prediction^  rang  a  bell  in  Meldrum's 
craven  soul.  Again  he  sought  reassurance  from 
those  about  him  and  found  none.  In  their 
place  he  knew  that  he  would  revenge  himself 
for  present  humiliation  by  cruelty  later.  He 
was  checkmated. 

It  was  an  odd  psychological  effect  of  Beau- 
243 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

dry's  hollow  defiance  that  confidence  flowed  in 
upon  him  as  that  of  Meldrum  ebbed.  The  chill 
drench  of  fear  had  lifted  from  his  heart.  It  came 
to  him  that  his  enemy  lacked  the  courage  to 
kill.  Safety  lay  in  acting  upon  this  assumption. 

He  raised  his  left  hand  and  brushed  the  bar- 
rel of  the  revolver  aside  contemptuously,  then 
turned  and  walked  along  the  platform  to  the 
building.  At  the  door  he  stopped,  to  lean 
faintly  against  the  jamb,  still  without  turning. 
Meldrum  might  shoot  at  any  moment.  It  de- 
pended on  how  drunk  he  was,  how  clearly  he 
could  vision  the  future,  how  greatly  his  proph- 
ecy had  impressed  him.  Cold  chills  ran  up 
and  down  the  spinal  column  of  the  young  cat- 
tleman. His  senses  were  reeling. 

To  cover  his  weakness  Roy  drew  tobacco  from 
his  coat-pocket  and  rolled  a  cigarette  with 
trembling  fingers.  He  flashed  a  match.  A  mo- 
ment later  an  insolent  smoke  wreath  rose  into 
the  air  and  floated  back  toward  Meldrum.  Roy 
passed  through  the  waiting-room  to  the  street 
beyond. 

Young  Beaudry  knew  that  the  cigarette 
episode  had  been  the  weak  bluff  of  one  whose 
strength  had  suddenly  deserted  him.  He  had 
snatched  at  it  to  cover  his  weakness.  But  to 

244 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

the  score  or  more  who  saw  that  spiral  of  smoke 
dissolving  jauntily  into  air,  no  such  thought  was 
possible.  The  filmy  wreath  represented  the 
acme  of  dare-devil  recklessness,  the  final  proof 
of  gameness  in  John  Beaudry's  son.  He  had 
turned  his  back  on  a  drunken  killer  crazy  for 
revenge  and  mocked  the  fellow  at  the  risk  of 
his  life. 

Presently  Roy  and  the  cattle-buyer  were 
bowling  down  the  street  behind  DingwelPs  fast 
young  four-year-olds.  The  Denver  man  did  not 
know  that  his  host  was  as  weak  from  the  reac- 
tion of  the  strain  as  a  child  stricken  with  fear. 


Chapter  XX 
At  the  Lazy  Double  D 

DINGWELL  squinted  over  the  bunch  of 
cattle  in  the  corral.  "Twenty  dollars  on 
the  hoof,  f.o.b.  at  the  siding,"  he  said  evenly. 
"You  to  take  the  run  of  the  pen,  no  culls." 

"I  heard  you  before,"  protested  the  buyer. 
"Learn  a  new  song,  Dingwell.  I  don't  like  the 
tune  of  that  one.  Make  it  eighteen  and  let  me 
cull  the  bunch." 

Dave  garnered  a  straw  clinging  to  the  fence 
and  chewed  it  meditatively.  "Couldn't  do  it 
without  hurting  my  conscience.  Nineteen  — 
no  culls.  That's  my  last  word." 

"I'd  sure  hate  to  injure  your  conscience, 
Dingwell,"  grinned  the  man  from  Denver. 
"  Think  I  '11  wait  till  you  go  to  town  and  do  busi- 
ness with  your  partner." 

"Think  he's  easy,  do  you?" 

"Easy!"  The  cattle-buyer  turned  the  con- 
versation to  the  subject  uppermost  in  his  mind. 
He  had  already  decided  to  take  the  cattle  and 
the  formal  agreement  could  wait.  "Easy!  Say, 

246 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

do  you  know  what  I  saw  that  young  man  put 
over  to-day  at  the  depot?" 

"I'll  know  when  you've  told  me,"  suggested 
Ding  well. 

The  Denver  man  told  his  story  and  added  edi- 
torial comment.  "  Gamest  thing  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life,  by  Jiminy  —  stood  there  with  his  back  to 
the  man-killer  and  lit  a  cigarette  while  the  ruffian 
had  his  finger  on  the  trigger  of  a  six-gun  ready 
to  whang  away  at  him.  Can  you  beat  that?  " 

The  eyes  of  the  cattleman  gleamed,  but  his 
drawling  voice  was  still  casual.  "Why  didn't 
Meldrum  shoot?" 

"Triumph  of  mind  over  matter,  I  reckon. 
He  wanted  to  shoot  —  was  crazy  to  kill  your 
friend.  But  —  he  did  n't.  Beaudry  had  talked 
him  out  of  it." 

"How?" 

"Bullied  him  out  of  it  —  jeered  at  him  and 
threatened  him  and  man-called  him,  with  that 
big  gun  shining  in  his  eyes  every  minute  of  the 
time." 

Dingwell  nodded  slowly.  He  wanted  to  get 
the  full  flavor  of  this  joyous  episode  that  had 
occurred.  "And  the  kid  lit  his  cigarette  while 
Meldrum,  crazy  as  a  hydrophobia  skunk,  had 
his  gun  trained  on  him?" 

247 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"That's  right.  Stood  there  with  a  kind  o' 
you-be-damned  placard  stuck  all  over  him,  then 
got  out  the  makin's  and  lit  up.  He  tilted  back 
that  handsome  head  of  his  and  blew  a  smoke 
wreath  into  the  air.  Looked  like  he'd  plumb 
wiped  Mr.  Meldrum  off  his  map.  He's  a  world- 
beater,  that  young  fellow  is  —  does  n't  know 
what  fear  is,"  concluded  the  buyer  sagely. 

:<You  don't  say!"  murmured  Mr.  Dingwell. 

"Sure  as  you're  a  foot  high.  While  I  was  try- 
ing to  climb  up  the  side  of  a  railroad  car  to  get 
out  of  range,  that  young  guy  was  figuring  it  all 
out.  He  was  explaining  thorough  to  the  bad 
man  what  would  happen  if  he  curled  his  fore- 
finger another  quarter  of  an  inch.  Just  as  cool 
and  easy,  you  understand." 

:<You  mean  that  he  figured  out  his  chances?" 

"You  bet  you!  He  figured  it  all  out,  played 
a  long  shot,  and  won.  The  point  is  that  it 
would  n't  help  him  any  if  this  fellow  Meldrum 
starred  in  a  subsequent  lynching.  The  man  had 
been  drinking  like  a  blue  blotter.  Had  he  sense 
enough  left  to  know  his  danger?  Was  his  brain 
steady  enough  to  hold  him  in  check?  Nobody 
could  tell  that.  But  your  partner  gambled  on 
it  and  won." 

This  was  meat  and  drink  to  Dave.  He  art- 
248 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

fully  pretended  to  make  light  of  the  whole  af- 
fair in  order  to  stir  up  the  buyer  to  more  de- 
tails. 

"I  reckon  maybe  Meldrum  was  just  bluffing. 
Maybe—" 

"Bluffing!"  The  Coloradoan  swelled.  "Bluff- 
ing !  I  tell  you  there  was  murder  in  the  fellow's 
eye.  He  had  come  there  primed  for  a  killing.  If 
Beaudry  had  weakened  by  a  hair's  breadth, 
that  forty -four  would  have  pumped  lead  into 
his  brain.  Ask  the  train  crew.  Ask  the  station 
agent.  Ask  any  one  who  was  there." 

"Maybeso,"  assented  Dave  dubiously.  "But 
if  he  was  so  game,  why  did  n't  Beaudry  go  back 
and  take  Meldrum's  gun  from  him?" 

The  buyer  was  on  the  spot  with  an  eager, 
triumphant  answer.  "That  just  proves  what  I 
claim.  He  just  brushed  the  fellow's  gun  aside 
and  acted  like  he'd  forgot  the  killer  had  a  gun. 
'Course,  he  could  'a'  gone  back  and  taken  the 
gun.  After  what  he'd  already  pulled  off,  that 
would  have  been  like  stealing  apples  from  a  blind 
Dutchman.  But  Beaudry  was  n't  going  to  give 
him  that  much  consideration.  Don't  you  see? 
Meldrum,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  was  welcome 
to  keep  the  revolver  to  play  with.  Your  friend 
did  n't  care  how  many  guns  he  was  toting." 

249 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"I  see.  If  he  had  taken  the  gun,  Meldrum 
might  have  thought  he  was  afraid  of  him." 

"Now  you're  shouting.  As  it  is  the  bad  man 
is  backed  clear  off  the  earth.  It's  like  as  if  your 
partner  said, '  Garnish  yourself  with  forty-fours 
if  you  like,  but  don't  get  gay  around  me." 

" So  you  think—  " 

"I  think  he's  some  bear-cat,  that  young  fel- 
low. When  you  're  looking  for  something  easy  to 
mix  with,  go  pick  a  grizzly  or  a  wild  cat,  but 
don't  you  monkey  with  friend  Beaudry.  He's 
liable  to  interfere  with  your  interior  geography. 
.  .  .  Say,  Dingwell.  Do  I  get  to  cull  this  bunch 
of  longhorn  skeletons  you're  misnaming  cat- 
tle?" 

"You  do  not." 

The  Denver  man  burlesqued  a  sigh.  "Oh, 
well!  I'll  go  broke  dealing  with  you  unsophis- 
ticated Shy  locks  of  the  range.  The  sooner  the 
quicker.  Send  'em  down  to  the  siding.  I  '11  take 
the  bunch." 

Roy  rode  up  on  a  pinto. 

"Help!  Help!"  pleaded  the  Coloradoan  of 
the  young  man. 

"He  means  that  I've  unloaded  this  corral 
full  of  Texas  dinosaurs  on  him  at  nineteen  a 
throw,"  explained  Dave. 

250 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"You've  made  a  good  bargain,"  Beaudry 
told  the  buyer. 

'"Course  he  has,  and  he  knows  it."  Dingwell 
opened  on  Roy  his  gay  smile.  "I  hear  you've 
had  a  run-in  with  the  bad  man  of  Chicito  Canon, 


son.': 


Roy  looked  at  the  Denver  man  reproachfully. 
Ever  since  the  affair  on  the  station  platform  he 
had  been  flogging  himself  because  he  had  driven 
away  and  left  Meldrum  in  possession  of  the 
field.  No  doubt  all  Battle  Butte  knew  now  how 
frightened  he  had  been.  The  women  were  gos- 
siping about  it  over  their  tea,  probably,  and 
men  were  retailing  the  story  in  saloons  and  on 
sidewalks. 

"I  did  n't  want  any  trouble,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically. "I  —  I  just  left  him." 

"That's  what  I've  been  hearing,"  assented 
Dave  dryly.  "  You  merely  showed  him  up  for 
a  false  alarm  and  kicked  him  into  the  discard. 
That's  good,  and  it's  bad.  We  know  now  that 
Meldrum  won't  fight  you  in  the  open.  You've 
got  him  buffaloed.  But  he'll  shoot  you  in  the 
back  if  he  can  do  it  safely.  I  know  the  cur. 
After  this  don't  ride  alone,  Roy,  and  don't  ride 
that  painted  hoss  at  all.  Get  you  a  nice  quiet 
buckskin  that  melts  into  the  atmosphere  like  a 

251 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

patch  of  bunch  grass.  Them's  my  few  well- 
chosen  words  of  advice,  as  Mariana  Bill  used  to 
say." 

Three  days  later  Beaudry,  who  had  been 
superintending  the  extension  of  an  irrigation 
ditch,  rode  up  to  the  porch  of  the  Lazy  Double 
D  ranch  house  and  found  Hal  Rutherford, 
senior,  with  his  chair  tilted  back  against  the 
wall.  The  smoke  of  his  pipe  mingled  fraternally 
with  that  of  Dingwell's  cigar.  He  nodded  geni- 
ally to  Roy  without  offering  to  shake  hands. 

"Mr.  Rutherford  dropped  in  to  give  us  the 
latest  about  Meldrum,"  explained  Dave.  "  Seems 
he  had  warned  our  friend  the  crook  to  lay  off 
you,  son.  When  Dan  showed  up  again  at  the 
park,  he  bumped  into  Miss  Beulah  and  said 
some  pleasant  things  to  her.  He  had  n't  no- 
ticed that  Jeff  was  just  round  the  corner  of  the 
schoolhouse  fixing  up  some  dingus  as  a  plat- 
form for  the  last  day's  speaking.  Jeff  always 
was  hot-headed.  Before  he  had  got  through 
with  Mr.  Meldrum,  he  had  mussed  his  hair  up 
considerable.  Dan  tried  to  gun  him  and  got  an 
awful  walloping.  He  hit  the  trail  to  Jess  Tighe's 
place.  When  Mr.  Rutherford  heard  of  it,  he 
was  annoyed.  First  off,  because  of  what  had 
happened  at  the  depot.  Second,  and  a  heap 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

more  important,  because  the  jailbird  had 
threatened  Miss  Beulah.  So  he  straddled  a 
horse  and  called  on  Dan,  who  shook  the  dust  of 
Huerfano  Park  from  his  bronco's  hoofs  poco 
tiempo." 

"Where  has  he  gone?"  asked  Roy. 

"Nobody  knows,  and  he  won't  tell.  But, 
knowing  Meldrum  as  we  do,  Rutherford  and  I 
have  come  to  a  coincidentical  opinion,  as  you 
might  say.  He's  a  bad  actor,  that  bird.  We 
figure  that  he's  waiting  in  the  chaparral  some- 
where to  pull  off  a  revenge  play,  after  which  he 
means  pronto  to  slide  his  freight  across  the  line 
to  the  land  of  old  Porf .  Diaz." 

"Revenge  —  on  Jeff  Rutherford  —  or  who? " 

"Son,  that's  a  question.  But  Jeff  won't  be 
easily  reached.  On  the  whole,  we  think  you're 
elected." 

Roy's  heart  sank.  If  Meldrum  had  been 
kicked  out  of  Huerfano  Park,  there  was  no 
room  for  him  in  New  Mexico.  Probably  the 
fear  of  the  Rutherfords  had  been  a  restraint 
upon  him  up  to  this  time.  But  now  that  he  had 
broken  with  them  and  was  leaving  the  country, 
the  man  was  free  to  follow  the  advice  of  Tighe. 
He  was  a  bully  whose  prestige  was  tottering. 
It  was  almost  sure  that  he  would  attempt  some 

353 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

savage  act  of  reprisal  before  he  left.  Beaudry 
had  no  doubt  that  he  would  be  the  victim  of  it. 

"What  am  I  to  do,  then?"  he  wanted  to 
know,  his  voice  quavering. 

"Stay  right  here  at  the  ranch.  Don't  travel 
from  the  house  till  we  check  up  on  Meldrum. 
Soon  as  he  shows  his  hand,  we'll  jump  him  and 
run  him  out  of  the  country.  All  you  Ve  got  to 
do  is  to  sit  tight  till  we  locate  him." 

"I'll  not  leave  the  house,"  Roy  vowed  fer- 
vently. 


Chapter  XXI 
Roy  Rides  his  Paint  Hoss 

BUT  he  did. 
For  next  day  Pat  Ryan  rode  up  to  the 
Lazy  Double  D  with  a  piece  of  news  that  took 
Roy  straight  to  his  pinto.  Beulah  Rutherford 
had  disappeared.  She  had  been  out  riding  and 
Blacky  had  come  home  with  an  empty  saddle. 
So  far  as  was  known,  Brad  Charlton  had  seen 
her  last.  He  had  met  her  just  above  the  La- 
guna  Sinks,  had  talked  with  her,  and  had  left 
the  young  woman  headed  toward  the  moun- 
tains. 

The  word  had  reached  Battle  Butte  through 
Slim  Sanders,  who  had  been  sent  down  from 
Huerfano  Park  for  help.  The  Rutherfords  and 
their  friends  were  already  combing  the  hills  for 
the  lost  girl,  but  the  owner  of  the  horse  ranch 
wanted  Sheriff  Sweeney  to  send  out  posses  as  a 
border  patrol.  Opinion  was  divided.  Some 
thought  Beulah  might  have  met  a  grizzly,  been 
unhorsed,  and  fallen  a  victim  to  it.  There  was 
the  possibility  that  she  might  have  stumbled 
while  climbing  and  hurt  herself.  According  to 

255 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Sanders,  her  father  held  to  another  view.  He 
was  convinced  that  Meldrum  was  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  thing. 

This  was  Roy's  instant  thought,  too.  He 
could  not  escape  the  sinister  suggestion  that 
through  the  girl  the  ruffian  had  punished  them 
all.  While  he  gave  sharp,  short  orders  to  get 
together  the  riders  of  the  ranch,  his  mind  was 
busy  with  the  situation.  Had  he  better  join 
Sweeney's  posse  and  patrol  the  desert?  Or 
would  he  help  more  by  pushing  straight  into 
the  hills? 

Dingwell  rode  up  and  looked  around  in  sur- 
prise. "What's  the  stir,  son?" 

His  partner  told  him  what  he  had  heard  and 
what  he  suspected. 

Before  he  answered,  Dave  chewed  a  medita- 
tive cud.  "  Maybeso  you  're  right  —  and  maybe 
'way  off.  Say  you  're  wrong.  Say  Meldrum  has 
nothing  to  do  with  this.  In  that  case  it  is  in  the 
hills  that  we  have  got  to  find  Miss  Beulah." 

"But  he  has.  I  feel  sure  he  has.  Mr.  Ryan 
says  Rutherford  thinks  so,  too." 

"Both  you  and  Hal  have  got  that  crook 
Meldrum  in  yore  minds.  You've  been  think- 
ing a  lot  about  him,  so  you  jump  to  the  con- 
clusion that  what  you're  afraid  of  has  hap- 

256 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

pened.  The  chances  are  ten  to  one  against  it. 
But  we'll  say  you're  right.  Put  yourself  in 
Meldrum's  place.  What  would  he  do?" 

Beaudry  turned  a  gray,  agonized  face  on  his 
friend,  "I  don't  know.  What  —  what  would 
he  do?" 

"The  way  to  get  at  it  is  to  figure  yourself  in 
his  boots.  Remember  that  you  're  a  bad,  rotten 
lot,  cur  to  the  bone.  You  meet  up  with  this 
girl  and  get  her  in  yore  power.  You've  got  a 
grudge  against  her  because  she  spoiled  yore 
plans,  and  because  through  her  you  were  handed 
the  whaling  of  yore  life  and  are  being  hounded 
out  of  the  country.  You're  sore  clear  through 
at  all  her  people  and  at  all  her  friends.  Nat- 
urally, you're  as  sweet-tempered  as  a  sore- 
headed  bear,  and  you've  probably  been  drink- 
ing like  a  sheepherder  on  a  spree." 

"I  know  what  a  devil  he  is.  The  question  is 
how  far  would  he  dare  go?" 

"You've  put  yore  finger  right  on  the  point, 
son.  What  might  restrain  him  would  n't  be 
any  moral  sense,  but  fear.  He  knows  that  once 
he  touched  Miss  Rutherford,  this  country 
would  treat  him  like  a  rattlesnake.  He  could 
not  even  be  sure  that  the  Rutherf ords  would  not 
hunt  him  down  in  Mexico." 

257 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"You  think  he  would  let  her  alone,  then?" 

The  old-timer  shook  his  head.  "No,  he 
wouldn't  do  that.  But  I  reckon  he'd  try  to 
postpone  a  decision  as  long  as  he  could.  Unless 
he  destroyed  her  in  the  first  rush  of  rage,  he 
would  n't  have  the  nerve  to  do  it  until  he  had 
made  himself  crazy  drunk.  It  all  depends  on 
circumstances,  but  my  judgment  is  —  if  he 
had  a  chance  and  if  he  did  n't  think  it  too  great 
a  risk  —  that  he  would  try  to  hold  her  a  pris- 
oner as  a  sort  of  hostage  to  gloat  over." 

"You  mean  keep  her  —  unharmed?" 

They  were  already  in  the  saddle  and  on  the 
road.  Dave  looked  across  at  his  white-faced 
friend. 

"I'm  only  guessing,  Roy,  but  that's  the  way 
I  figure  it,"  he  said  gently. 

"You  don't  think  he  would  try  to  take  her 
across  the  desert  with  him  to  Mexico." 

Ryan  shook  his  head. 

"No  chance.  He  couldn't  make  it.  When 
he  leaves  the  hills,  Miss  Rutherford  will  stay 
there." 

"Alive?"  asked  Beaudry  from  a  dry  throat. 

"Don't  know." 

"God!" 

"So  that  whether  Miss  Beulah  did  or  did  not 
258 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

meet  Meldrum,  we  have  to  look  for  her  up 
among  the  mountains  of  the  Big  Creek  water- 
shed," concluded  Dingwell.  "I  believe  we'll 
find  her  safe  and  sound.  Chances  are  Meldrum 
is  n't  within  forty  miles  of  her." 

They  were  riding  toward  Lonesome  Park, 
from  which  they  intended  to  work  up  into  the 
hills.  Just  before  reaching  the  rim  of  the  park, 
they  circled  around  a  young  pine  lying  across 
the  trail.  Roy  remembered  the  tree.  It  had 
stood  on  a  little  knoll,  strong  and  graceful, 
reaching  straight  toward  heaven  with  a  kind  of 
gallant  uprightness.  Now  its  trunk  was  snapped, 
its  boughs  crushed,  its  foliage  turning  sere.  An 
envious  wind  had  brought  it  low.  Somehow 
that  pine  reminded  Beaudry  poignantly  of  the 
girl  they  were  seeking.  She,  too,  had  always 
stood  aloof,  a  fine  and  vital  personality,  before 
the  eyes  of  men  sufficient  to  herself.  But  as  the 
evergreen  had  stretched  its  hundred  arms  toward 
light  and  sunshine,  so  Beulah  Rutherford  had 
cried  dumbly  to  life  for  some  vague  good  she 
could  not  formulate. 

Were  her  pride  and  courage  abased,  too?  Roy 
would  not  let  himself  believe  it.  The  way  of 
youth  is  to  deny  the  truth  of  all  signposts  which 
point  to  the  futility  of  beauty  and  strength.  It 

259 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

would  be  a  kind  of  apostasy  to  admit  that  her 
sweet,  lissom  grace  might  be  forever  crushed  and 
bruised. 

They  rode  hard  and  steadily.  Before  dusk 
they  were  well  up  toward  the  divide  among  the 
wooded  pockets  of  the  hills.  From  one  of  these 
a  man  came  to  meet  them. 

"It's  Hal  Rutherford,"  announced  Ryan, 
who  was  riding  in  front  with  Dingwell. 

The  owner  of  the  horse  ranch  nodded  a  greet- 
ing as  he  drew  up  in  front  of  them.  He  was  un- 
shaven and  gaunt.  Furrows  of  anxiety  lined 
his  face. 

"Anything  new,  Hal?"  asked  Dave. 

"Not  a  thing.  We're  combing  the  hills 
thorough." 

"  You  don't  reckon  that  maybe  a  cougar  — ?" 
Ryan  stopped.  It  occurred  to  him  that  his  sug- 
gestion was  not  a  very  cheerful  one. 

Rutherford  looked  at  the  little  Irishman  from 
bleak  eyes.  The  misery  in  them  was  for  the 
moment  submerged  in  a  swift  tide  of  hate. 
"A  two-legged  cougar,  Pat.  If  I  meet  up  with 
him,  I'll  take  his  hide  off  inch  by  inch." 

"Meaning  Meldrum?"  asked  Roy. 

"Meaning  Meldrum."  A  spasm  of  pain  shot 
across  the  face  of  the  man.  "If  he's  done  my 

260 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

little  girl  any  meanness,  he'd  better  blow  his 
head  off  before  I  get  to  him." 

"Don't  believe  he'd  dare  hurt  Miss  Beulah, 
Rutherford.  Meldrum  belongs  to  the  coyote 
branch  of  the  wolf  family.  I've  noticed  it's  his 
night  to  howl  only  when  hunters  are  liable  to 
be  abed.  If  he's  in  this  thing  at  all,  I'll  bet  he's 
trying  to  play  both  ends  against  the  middle. 
We'll  sure  give  him  a  run  for  his  white  alley," 
Dingwell  concluded. 

"Hope  you're  right,  Dave,"  Rutherford 
added  in  a  voice  rough  with  the  feeling  he  could 
not  suppress:  "I  appreciate  it  that  you  boys 
from  the  Lazy  Double  D  came  after  what  has 
taken  place." 

Dave  grinned  cheerfully.  "Sho,  Hal!  Maybe 
Beaudry  and  I  are  n't  sending  any  loving-cups 
up  to  you  and  yours,  but  we  don't  pull  any 
of  that  sulk-in-the-tent  stuff  when  our  good 
friend  Beulah  Rutherford  is  lost  in  the  hills. 
She  went  through  for  us  proper,  and  we  ain't 
going  to  quit  till  we  bring  her  back  to  you  as 
peart  and  sassy  as  that  calf  there." 

"What  part  of  the  country  do  you  want  us 
to  work?"  asked  Ryan. 

"You  can  take  DeL  Oro  and  Lame  Cow 
Creeks  from  the  divide  down  to  the  foothills," 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Rutherford  answered.  "  I  '11  send  one  of  the  boys 
over  to  boss  the  round-up.  He'll  know  the 
ground  better  than  you  lads.  Make  camp  here 
to-night  and  he'll  join  you  before  you  start. 
To-morrow  evening  I  '11  have  a  messenger  meet 
you  on  the  flats.  We're  trying  to  keep  in  touch 
with  each  other,  you  understand." 

Rutherford  left  them  making  camp.  They 
were  so  far  up  in  the  mountains  that  the  night 
was  cool,  even  though  the  season  was  midsum- 
mer. Unused  to  sleeping  outdoors  as  yet,  Roy 
lay  awake  far  into  the  night.  His  nerves  were 
jumpy.  The  noises  of  the  grazing  horses  and  of 
the  four-footed  inhabitants  of  the  night  startled 
him  more  than  once  from  a  cat-nap.  His 
thoughts  were  full  of  Beulah  Rutherford.  Was 
she  alive  or  dead  to-night,  in  peril  or  in  safety? 

At  last,  in  the  fag  end  of  the  night,  he  fell  into 
sound  sleep  that  was  untroubled.  From  this  he 
was  wakened  in  the  first  dim  dawn  by  the  sound 
of  his  companions  stirring.  A  fire  was  already 
blazing  and  breakfast  in  process  of  making.  He 
rose  and  stretched  his  stiff  limbs.  Every  bone 
seemed  to  ache  from  contact  with  the  hard 
ground. 

While  they  were  eating  breakfast,  a  man  rode 
up  and  dismounted.  A  long,  fresh  zigzag  scar 

262 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

stretched  across  his  forehead.  It  was  as  plain  to 
be  seen  as  the  scowl  which  drew  his  heavy  eye- 
brows together. 

"5Lo,  Charlton.  Come  to  boss  this  round-up 
for  us?"  asked  Dingwell  cheerily. 

The  young  man  nodded  sulkily.  "Hal  sent 
me.  The  boys  were  n't  with  him."  He  looked 
across  the  fire  at  Beaudry,  and  there  was 
smouldering  rage  in  his  narrowed  eyes. 

Roy  murmured  "Good-morning"  in  a  rather 
stifled  voice.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  met 
Charlton  since  they  had  clashed  in  the  arcade 
of  the  Silver  Dollar.  That  long  deep  scar  fas- 
cinated him.  He  felt  an  impulse  to  apologize 
humbly  for  having  hit  him  so  hard.  To  put  such 
a  mark  on  a  man  for  life  was  a  liberty  that  might 
well  be  taken  as  a  personal  affront.  No  won- 
der Charlton  hated  him  —  and  as  their  eyes 
met  now,  Roy  had  no  doubt  about  that.  The 
man  was  his  enemy.  Some  day  he  would  even 
the  score.  Again  Beaudry 's  heart  felt  the  famil- 
iar drench  of  an  icy  wave. 

Charlton  did  not  answer  his  greeting.  He 
flushed  to  his  throat,  turned  abruptly  on  his 
heel,  and  began  to  talk  with  Ryan.  The  hillman 
wanted  it  clearly  understood  that  the  feud  he 
cherished  was  only  temporarily  abandoned. 

263 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

But  even  Roy  noticed  that  the  young  Admi- 
rable Crichton  had  lost  some  of  his  debonair 
aplomb. 

The  little  Irishman  explained  this  with  a 
grin  to  Dave  as  they  were  riding  together  half 
an  hour  later.  "It's  not  so  easy  to  get  away 
with  that  slow  insolence  of  his  while  he's  wear- 
ing that  forgit-me-not  young  Beaudry  handed 
him  in  the  mix-up." 

"Sort  of  spoils  the  toutensemble,  as  that 
young  Melrose  tenderfoot  used  to  say  —  kinder 
as  if  a  bald-haided  guy  was  playing  Romeo  and 
had  lost  his  wig  in  the  shuffle,"  agreed  Dave. 

By  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  they  were  well 
up  in  the  headwaters  of  the  two  creeks  they 
were  to  work.  Charlton  divided  the  party  so  as 
to  cover  both  watersheds  as  they  swept  slowly 
down.  Roy  was  on  the  extreme  right  of  those 
working  Del  Oro. 

It  was  a  rough  country,  with  wooded  draws 
cached  in  unexpected  pockets  of  the  hills.  Here 
a  man  might  lie  safely  on  one  of  a  hundred 
ledges  while  the  pursuit  drove  past  within  fifty 
feet  of  him.  As  Roy's  pinto  clambered  up  and 
down  the  steep  hills,  he  recalled  the  advice  of 
Dave  to  ride  a  buckskin  "that  melts  into  the 
atmosphere  like  a  patch  of  bunch  grass."  He 

264 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

wished  he  had  taken  that  advice.  A  man  look- 
ing for  revenge  could  crouch  in  the  chaparral 
and  with  a  crook  of  his  finger  send  winged  death 
at  his  enemy.  A  twig  crackling  under  the  hoof 
of  his  horse  more  than  once  sent  an  electric  shock 
through  his  pulses.  The  crash  of  a  bear  through 
the  brush  seemed  to  stop  the  beating  of  his 
heart. 

Charlton  had  made  a  mistake  in  putting 
Beaudry  on  the  extreme  right  of  the  drive.  The 
number  of  men  combing  the  two  creeks  was  not 
enough  to  permit  close  contact.  Sometimes  a 
rider  was  within  hail  of  his  neighbor.  More 
often  he  was  not.  Roy,  unused  to  following  the 
rodeo,  was  deflected  by  the  topography  of  the 
ridge  so  far  to  the  right  that  he  lost  touch  with 
the  rest. 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  he  had  to  con- 
fess to  himself  with  chagrin  that  he  did  not  even 
know  how  to  reach  Del  Oro.  While  he  had  been 
riding  the  rough  wooded  ridge  above,  the  creek 
had  probably  made  a  sharp  turn  to  the  left. 
Must  he  go  back  the  way  he  had  come?  Or  could 
he  cut  across  country  to  it?  It  was  humiliating 
that  he  could  not  even  follow  a  small  river  with- 
out losing  the  stream  and  himself.  He  could 
vision  the  cold  sneer  of  Charlton  when  he 

265 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

failed  to  appear  at  the  night  rendezvous.  Even 
his  friends  would  be  annoyed  at  such  helpless- 
ness. 

After  an  hour's  vain  search  he  was  more 
deeply  tangled  in  the  web  of  hills.  He  was  no 
longer  even  sure  how  to  get  down  from  them 
into  the  lower  reaches  of  country  toward  which 
he  was  aiming. 

While  he  hesitated  on  a  ridge  there  came  to 
him  a  faint,  far  cry.  He  gave  a  shout  of  relief, 
then  listened  for  his  answer.  It  did  not  come. 
He  called  again,  a  third  time,  and  a  fourth.  The 
wind  brought  back  no  reply.  Roy  rode  in  the 
direction  of  the  sound  that  had  first  registered 
itself  on  his  ears,  stopping  every  minute  or  two 
to  shout.  Once  he  fancied  he  heard  again  the 
voice. 

Then,  unexpectedly,  the  cry  came  perfectly 
clear,  over  to  the  right  scarcely  a  hundred 
yards.  A  little  arroyo  of  quaking  aspens  lay 
between  him  and  the  one  who  called.  He  dis- 
mounted, tied  his  horse  to  a  sapling,  and  pushed 
through  the  growth  of  young  trees.  Emerging 
from  these,  he  climbed  the  brow  of  the  hill  and 
looked  around.  Nobody  was  in  sight. 

"Where  are  you?"  he  shouted. 

"Here  — -  in  the  prospect  hole." 
266 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

His  pulses  crashed.  That  voice  —  he  would 
have  known  it  out  of  a  million. 

A  small  dirt  dump  on  the  hillside  caught  his 
eye.  He  ran  forward  to  the  edge  of  a  pit  and 
looked  down. 

The  haggard  eyes  of  Beulah  Rutherford  were 
lifted  to  meet  his. 


Chapter  XXII 

Miss  Rutherford  Speaks  her  Mind 

FOR  the  first  time  in  over  a  year  an  itinerant 
preacher  was  to  hold  services  in  the  Huer- 
fano  Park  schoolhouse.  He  would  speak,  Beulah 
Rutherford  knew,  to  a  mere  handful  of  people, 
and  it  was  to  mitigate  his  disappointment  that 
she  rode  out  into  the  hills  on  the  morning  of  her 
disappearance  to  find  an  armful  of  columbines 
for  decorating  the  desk-pulpit.  The  man  had 
written  Miss  Rutherford  and  asked  her  to  notify 
the  community.  She  had  seen  that  the  news 
was  carried  to  the  remotest  ranch,  but  she  ex- 
pected for  a  congregation  only  a  scatter  of  pa- 
tient women  and  restless  children  with  three  or 
four  coffee-brown  youths  in  high-heeled  boots 
on  the  back  row  to  represent  the  sinners. 

It  was  a  brave,  clean  world  into  which  she 
rode  this  summer  morning.  The  breeze  brought 
to  her  nostrils  the  sweet  aroma  of  the  sage. 
Before  her  lifted  the  saw-toothed  range  into  a 
sky  of  blue  sprinkled  here  and  there  with  light 
mackerel  clouds.  Blacky  pranced  with  fire 

268 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

and  intelligence,  eager  to  reach  out  and  leave 
behind  him  the  sunny  miles. 

Near  the  upper  end  of  the  park  she  swung  up 
an  arroyo  that  led  to  Big  Flat  Top.  A  drawling 
voice  stopped  her. 

"Oh,  you,  Beulah  Rutherford!  Where  away 
this  glad  mo'ning?" 

A  loose-seated  rider  was  lounging  in  the  sad- 
dle on  a  little  bluff  fifty  yards  away.  His  smile 
reminded  her  of  a  new  copper  kettle  shining  in 
the  sun. 

"To  find  columbines  for  church  decorations," 
she  said  with  an  answering  smile. 

"Have  you  been  building  a  church  since  I 
last  met  up  with  you?" 

"There  will  be  services  in  the  schoolhouse  to- 
morrow at  three  P.M.,  conducted  by  the  Rever- 
end Melancthon  Smith.  Mr.  Charlton  is  es- 
pecially invited  to  attend." 

"Maybe  I'll  be  there.  You  can't  sometimes 
'most  always  tell.  I'm  going  to  prove  I've  got 
nothing  against  religion  by  going  with  you  to 
help  gather  the  pulpit  decorations." 

"That's  very  self-sacrificing  of  you."  She 
flashed  a  look  of  gay  derision  at  him  as  he  joined 
her.  "Sure  you  can  afford  to  waste  so  much 
time?" 

269 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"I  don't  call  it  wasted.  But  since  you've  in- 
vited me  so  hearty  to  your  picnic,  I  'd  like  to  be 
sure  you 've  got  grub  enough  in  the  chuck  wagon 
for  two,"  he  said  with  a  glance  at  her  saddle- 
bags. 

"I'm  not  sure.    Maybe  you  had  better  not 


come." 


"Oh,  I'm  coming  if  you  starve  me.  Say, 
Beulah,  have  you  heard  about  Jess  Tighe?" 

"What  about  him?" 

"He  had  a  stroke  last  night.  Doc  Spindler 
thinks  he  won't  live  more  than  a  few  hours." 

Beulah  mused  over  that  for  a  few  moments 
without  answer.  She  had  no  liking  for  the  man, 
but  it  is  the  way  of  youth  to  be  shocked  at  the 
approach  of  death.  Yet  she  knew  this  would 
help  to  clear  up  the  situation.  With  the  evil 
influence  of  Tighe  removed,  there  would  be 
a  chance  for  the  park  to  develop  along  more 
wholesome  lines.  He  had  been  like  a  sinister 
shadow  that  keeps  away  the  sunlight. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "I  don't  wish  him 
any  harm.  But  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  all 
of  us  when  he  can't  make  us  more  sorrow  and 
trouble." 

"He  never  made  me  any,"  Charlton  an- 
swered. 

270 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Did  n't  he?"  She  looked  steadily  across  at 
him.  "You  can't  tell  me  he  didn't  plan  that 
express  robbery,  for  instance." 

"Meaning  that  I  was  in  the  party  that  pulled 
it  off?"  he  asked,  flushing. 

"  I  know  well  enough  you  were  in  it  —  knew 
it  all  along.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  you  could  n't 
keep  out  of." 

"How  about  Ned?  Do  you  reckon  he  could 
keep  out  of  it?"  She  detected  rising  anger  be- 
neath his  controlled  voice. 

"Not  with  you  leading  him  on."  Her  eyes 
poured  scorn  on  him.  "And  I'm  sure  he  would 
appreciate  your  loyalty  in  telling  me  he  was  in 
it." 

"Why  do  you  jump  on  me,  then?"  he  de- 
manded sulkily.  "And  I  did  n't  say  Ned  was  in 
that  hold-up  —  any  more  than  I  admit  having 
been  in  it  myself.  Are  you  trying  to  make 
trouble  with  me?  Is  that  it?" 

"I  don't  care  whether  I  make  trouble  with 
you  or  not.  I  'm  not  going  to  pretend  and  make- 
believe,  if  that 's  what  you  want.  I  don't  have  to 
do  it." 

"I  see  you  don't,"  he.  retorted  bluntly.  "I 
suppose  you  don't  have  to  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness either." 

271 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"It  is  my  business  when  Ned  follows  you 
into  robbery." 

"Maybe  I  followed  him,"  he  jeered. 

She  bit  back  the  tart  answer  on  her  tongue. 
What  was  the  use  of  quarreling?  It  used  to  be 
that  they  were  good  friends,  but  of  late  they 
jangled  whenever  they  met.  Ever  since  the 
Western  Express  affair  she  had  held  a  grudge 
at  him.  Six  months  ago  she  had  almost  promised 
to  marry  him.  Now  nothing  was  farther  from 
her  thoughts. 

But  he  was  still  very  much  of  the  mind  that 
she  should. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Boots?"  he 
wanted  to  know  roughly.  "You  used  to  have 
some  sense.  You  weren't  always  flying  out 
at  a  fellow.  Now  there's  no  way  of  pleasing 
you." 

"I  suppose  it  is  odd  that  I  don't  want  my 
friends  to  be  thieves,"  she  flung  out  bitterly. 

"Don't  use  that  word  if  you  mean  me,"  he 
ordered. 

"What  word  shall  I  substitute?" 

He  barely  suppressed  an  oath.  "  I  know 
what's  ailing  you?  We're  not  smooth  enough 
up  here  for  you.  We  're  not  educated  up  to  your 
standard.  If  I  'd  been  to  Cornell,  say  — 

272 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Take  care,"  she  warned  with  a  flash  of  an- 
ger in  her  black  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Why  should  I  cull  my 
words  so  careful?  I  notice  yours  ain't  hand- 
picked.  Ever  since  this  guy  Beaudry  came  spy- 
ing into  the  park,  you've  had  no  use  for  me. 
You  have  been  throwing  yourself  at  his  head 
and  could  n't  see  any  one  else." 

She  gasped.  "How  dare  you,  Brad  Charl- 
ton?" 

His  jealousy  swept  away  the  prudence  that 
had  dammed  his  anger.  "Did  n't  you  take  him 
out  driving?  Didn't  you  spend  a  night  alone 
with  him  and  Dave  Dingwell?  Did  n't  you  hot- 
foot it  down  to  Hart's  because  you  was  afraid 
yore  precious  spy  would  meet  up  with  what  he 
deserved?" 

Beulah  drew  up  Blacky  abruptly.  "Now  you 
can  leave  me.  Don't  stop  to  say  good-bye. 
I  hate  you.  I  don't  ever  want  to  see  you 
again." 

He  had  gone  too  far  and  he  knew  it.  Sulkily 
he  began  to  make  his  apology.  "You  know  how 
fond  I  am  of  you,  Boots.  You  know  — " 

"  Yes,  I  ought  to.  I  've  heard  it  often  enough," 
she  interrupted  curtly.  "That's  probably  why 
you  insult  me?" 

273 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Her  gypsy  eyes  stabbed  him.  She  was  furi- 
ously angry.  He  attempted  to  explain.  "Now, 
listen  here,  Beulah.  Let's  be  reasonable." 

"Are  you  going  up  or  down?"  she  demanded. 
"I'm  going  the  other  way.  Take  one  road  or 
the  other,  you  —  you  scandalmonger." 

Never  a  patient  man,  he  too  gave  rein  to  his 
anger.  "Since  you  want  to  know,  I'm  going 
down  —  to  Battle  Butte,  where  I'll  likely  meet 
yore  friend  Beaudry  and  settle  an  account  or  two 
with  him.  I  reckon  before  I  git  through  with 
him  he'll  yell  something  besides  Cornell." 

The  girl  laughed  scornfully.  "Last  time  I  saw 
him  he  had  just  beaten  a  dozen  or  so  of  you. 
How  many  friends  are  you  going  to  take  along 
this  trip?" 

Already  her  horse  was  taking  the  trail.  She 
called  the  insult  down  to  him  over  her  shoulder. 

But  before  she  had  gone  a  half-mile  her  eyes 
were  blind  with  tears.  Why  did  she  get  so  an- 
gry? Why  did  she  say  such  things?  Other  girls 
were  ladylike  and  soft-spoken.  Was  there  a 
streak  of  commonness  in  her  that  made  possible 
such  a  scene  as  she  had  just  gone  through?  In 
her  heart  she  longed  to  be  a  lady  —  gentle,  re- 
fined, sweet  of  spirit.  Instead  of  which  she  was 
a  bad-tempered  tomboy.  "Miss  Spitfire"  her 

274 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

brothers  sometimes  called  her,  and  she  knew  the 
name  was  justified. 

Take  this  quarrel  now  with  Brad.  She  had  had 
no  intention  of  breaking  with  him  in  that  fash- 
ion. Why  could  n't  she  dismiss  a  lover  as  girls 
in  books  do,  in  such  a  way  as  to  keep  him  for  a 
friend?  She  had  not  meant,  anyhow,  to  bring 
the  matter  to  issue  to-day.  One  moment  they 
had  been  apparently  the  best  of  comrades.  The 
next  they  had  been  saying  hateful  things  to  each 
other.  What  he  had  said  was  unforgivable,  but 
she  had  begun  by  accusing  him  of  complicity  in 
the  train  robbery.  Knowing  how  arrogant  he 
was,  she  might  have  guessed  how  angry  criticism 
would  make  him. 

Yet  she  was  conscious  of  a  relief  that  it  was 
over  with  at  last.  Charlton  was  proud.  He 
would  leave  her  alone  unless  she  called  him  to 
her  side.  Her  tears  were  for  the  humiliating  way 
in  which  they  had  wrenched  apart  rather  than 
for  the  fact  of  the  break. 

She  knew  his  temper.  Nothing  on  earth  could 
keep  him  from  flying  at  the  throat  of  Roy  Beau- 
dry  now.  Well,  she  had  no  interest  in  either  of 
them,  she  reminded  herself  impatiently.  It  was 
none  of  her  business  how  they  settled  their  dif- 
ferences. Yet,  as  Blacky  followed  the  stiff  trail 

275 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

to  Big  Flat  Top,  her  mind  was  wretchedly 
troubled. 

Beulah  had  expected  to  find  her  columbines  in 
a  gulch  back  of  Big  Flat  Top,  but  the  flowers 
were  just  past  their  prime  here.  The  petals  fell 
fluttering  at  her  touch.  She  hesitated.  Of 
course,  she  did  not  have  to  get  columbines  for 
the  preaching  service.  Sweet-peas  would  do  very 
well.  But  she  was  a  young  woman  who  did  not 
like  to  be  beaten.  She  had  plenty  of  time,  and 
she  wanted  an  excuse  to  be  alone  all  day.  Why 
not  ride  over  to  Del  Oro  Creek,  where  the  sea- 
son was  later  and  the  columbines  would  be  just 
coming  on? 

The  ayes  had  it,  and  presently  Miss  Ruther- 
ford was  winding  deeper  into  the  great  hills  that 
skirted  Flat  Top.  Far  in  the  gulches,  dammed 
by  the  small  thick  timber,  she  came  on  patches 
of  snow  upon  which  the  sun  never  shone.  Once 
a  ptarmigan  started  from  the  brush  at  her  feet. 
An  elk  sprang  up  from  behind  a  log,  stared  at 
her,  and  crashed  away  through  the  fallen  tim- 
ber. 

Her  devious  road  took  Beulah  past  a  hill 
flaming  with  goldenrod  and  Indian  paint- 
brushes. A  wealth  of  color  decorated  every 
draw,  for  up  here  at  the  roots  of  the  peaks  blos- 

276 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

soms  rioted  in  great  splashes  that  ran  to  the 
snowbanks. 

After  all,  she  had  to  go  lower  for  her  favorite 
blooms.  On  Del  Oro  she  found  columbines,  but 
in  no  great  profusion.  She  wandered  from  the 
stream,  leading  Blacky  by  the  bridle.  On  a  hill- 
side just  above  an  aspen  grove  the  girl  came 
upon  scattered  clumps  of  them.  Tying  the  pony 
loosely  to  a  clump  of  bushes,  she  began  to  gather 
the  delicate  blue  wild  flowers. 

The  blossoms  enticed  her  feet  to  the  edge  of  a 
prospect  hole  long  since  abandoned.  A  clump  of 
them  grew  from  the  side  of  the  pit  about  a  foot 
below  the  level  of  the  ground.  Beulah  reached 
for  them,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  ground 
caved  beneath  her  feet.  She  clutched  at  a  bush 
in  vain  as  she  plunged  down. 

Jarred  by  the  fall,  Beulah  lay  for  a  minute  in 
a  huddle  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit.  She  was  not 
quite  sure  that  no  bones  were  broken.  Before 
she  had  time  to  make  certain,  a  sound  brought 
her  rigidly  to  her  feet.  It  was  a  light  loose  sound 
like  the  shaking  of  dried  peas  in  their  pods.  No 
dweller  of  the  outdoors  Southwest  could  have 
failed  to  recognize  it,  and  none  but  would  have 
been  startled  by  it. 

The  girl  whipped  her  revolver  from  its  scab- 
277 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

bard  and  stood  pressed  against  the  rock  wall 
while  her  eyes  searched  swiftly  the  prison  into 
which  she  had  fallen.  Again  came  that  light 
swift  rattle  with  its  sinister  menace. 

The  enemy  lay  coiled  across  the  pit  from  her, 
head  and  neck  raised,  tongue  vibrating.  Beulah 
fired  —  once  —  twice  —  a  third  time.  It  was 
enough.  The  rattlesnake  ceased  writhing. 

The  first  thing  she  did  was  to  examine  every 
inch  of  her  prison  to  make  sure  there  were  no 
more  rattlers.  Satisfied  as  to  this,  she  leaned 
faintly  against  the  wall.  The  experience  had 
been  a  shock  even  to  her  sound  young  nerves. 


Chapter  XXIII 
In  the  Pit 

BEULAH  shut  her  eyes  to  steady  herself. 
From  the  impact  of  her  fall  she  was  still 
shaken.  Moreover,  though  she  had  shot  many 
a  rattlesnake,  this  was  the  first  time  she  had 
ever  been  flung  head  first  into  the  den  of  one. 
It  would  have  been  easy  to  faint,  but  she  denied 
herself  the  luxury  of  it  and  resolutely  fought 
back  the  swimming  lightness  in  her  head. 

Presently  she  began  to  take  stock  of  her  situa- 
tion. The  prospect  hole  was  circular  in  form, 
about  ten  feet  across  and  nine  feet  deep.  The 
walls  were  of  rock  and  smooth  clay.  Whatever 
timbering  had  been  left  by  the  prospector  was 
rotted  beyond  use.  It  crumbled  at  the  weight  of 
her  foot. 

How  was  she  to  get  out?  Of  course,  she  would 
find  some  way,  she  told  herself.  But  how? 
Blacky  was  tied  to  a  bush  not  fifty  yards  away, 
and  fastened  to  the  saddle  horn  was  the  rope 
that  would  have  solved  her  problem  quickly 
enough.  If  she  had  it  here  -  But  it  might  as 

279 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

well  be  at  Cheyenne  for  all  the  good  it  would  do 
her  now. 

Perhaps  she  could  dig  footholds  in  the  wall  by 
means  of  which  she  could  climb  out.  Unbuckling 
the  spur  from  her  heel,  she  used  the  rowel  as  a 
knife  to  jab  a  hole  in  the  clay.  After  half  an 
hour  of  persistent  work  she  looked  at  the  result 
in  dismay.  She  had  gouged  a  hollow,  but  it  was 
not  one  where  her  foot  could  rest  while  she  made 
steps  above. 

Every  few  minutes  Beulah  stopped  work  to 
shout  for  help.  It  was  not  likely  that  anybody 
would  be  passing.  Probably  she  had  been  the 
only  person  on  this  hill  for  months.  But  she 
dared  not  miss  any  chance. 

For  it  was  coming  home  to  her  that  she  might 
die  of  starvation  in  this  prison  long  before  her 
people  found  the  place.  By  morning  search- 
parties  would  be  out  over  the  hills  looking  for 
her.  But  who  would  think  to  find  her  away  over 
on  Del  Oro?  If  Brad  had  carried  out  his  threat 
immediately  and  gone  down  to  Battle  Butte, 
nobody  would  know  even  the  general  direction 
in  which  to  seek. 

With  every  hour  Beulah  grew  more  troubled. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  she  fired  a  fourth  shot 
from  her  revolver  in  the  hope  that  some  one 

280 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

might  hear  the  sound  and  investigate.  The  sun 
set  early  for  her.  She  watched  its  rays  climb  the 
wall  of  her  prison  while  she  worked  half-heart- 
edly with  the  spur.  After  a  time  the  light  began 
to  fade,  darkness  swept  over  the  land,  and  she 
had  to  keep  moving  in  order  not  to  chill. 

Never  had  she  known  such  a  night.  It  seemed 
to  the  tortured  girl  that  morning  would  never 
come.  She  counted  the  stars  above  her.  Some- 
times there  were  more.  Sometimes  fewer.  After 
an  eternity  they  began  to  fade  out  in  the  sky. 
Day  was  at  hand. 

She  fired  the  fifth  shot  from  her  revolver. 
Her  voice  was  hoarse  from  shouting,  but  she 
called  every  few  minutes.  Then,  when  she  was 
at  the  low  ebb  of  hope,  there  came  an  answer  to 
her  call.  She  fired  her  last  shot.  She  called  and 
shouted  again  and  again.  The  voice  that  came 
back  to  her  was  close  at  hand. 

"I'm  down  in  the  prospect  hole,"  she  cried. 

Another  moment,  and  she  was  looking  up  into 
the  face  of  a  man,  Dan  Meldrum.  In  vacant 
astonishment  he  gazed  down  at  her. 

"Whad  you  doing  here?"  he  asked  roughly. 

"I  fell  in.  I've  been  here  all  night."  Her 
voice  broke  a  little.  "Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've 


come." 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

It  was  of  no  importance  that  he  was  a  man  she 
detested,  one  who  had  quarreled  with  her  father 
and  been  thrashed  by  her  brother  for  insulting 
her.  All  she  thought  of  was  that  help  had  come 
to  her  at  last  and  she  was  now  safe. 

He  stared  down  at  her  with  a  kind  of  drunken 
malevolence. 

"So  you  fell  in,  eh?" 

"Yes.  Please  help  me  out  right  away.  My 
riata  is  tied  to  Blacky 's  saddle." 

He  looked  around.   "Where?" 

"Is  n't  Blacky  there?  He  must  have  broken 
loose,  then.  Never  mind.  Pass  me  down  the 
end  of  a  young  sapling  and  you  can  pull  me 
up." 

"Can  I?" 

For  the  first  time  she  felt  a  shock  of  alarm. 
There  was  in  his  voice  something  that  chilled 
her,  something  inexpressibly  cruel. 

"I'll  see  my  father  rewards  you.  I'll  see  you 
get  well  paid,"  she  promised,  and  the  inflection 
of  the  words  was  an  entreaty. 

"You  will,  eh?" 

"Anything  you  want,"  she  hurried  on. 
"Name  it.  If  we  can  give  it  to  you,  I  promise 
it." 

His  drunken  brain  was  functioning  slowly. 
282 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

This  was  the  girl  who  had  betrayed  him  up  in 
Chicito  Canon,  the  one  who  had  frustrated  his 
revenge  at  Hart's.  On  account  of  her  young 
Rutherford  had  given  him  the  beating  of  his 
life  and  Hal  had  driven  him  from  Huerfano 
Park.  First  and  last  she  was  the  rock  upon  which 
his  fortunes  had  split.  Now  chance  had  de- 
livered her  into  his  hands.  What  should  he  do 
with  her?  How  could  he  safely  make  the  most  of 
the  opportunity? 

It  did  not  for  an  instant  occur  to  him  to  haul 
her  from  the  pit  and  send  her  rejoicing  on  the 
homeward  way.  He  intended  to  make  her  pay 
in  full.  But  how?  How  get  his  revenge  and  not 
jeopardize  his  own  safety? 

"Won't  you  hurry,  please?"  she  pleaded. 
"I'm  hungry  —  and  thirsty.  I've  been  here  all 
night  and  most  of  yesterday.  It's  been  .  .  . 
rather  awful." 

He  rubbed  his  rough,  unshaven  cheek  while 
his  little  pig  eyes  looked  down  into  hers.  "Tha' 
so?  Well,  I  dunno  as  it's  any  business  of  mine 
where  you  spend  the  night  or  how  long  you  stay 
there.  I  had  it  put  up  to  me  to  lay  off  'n  inter- 
fering with  you.  Seems  like  yore  family  got 
notions  I  was  insulting  you.  That  young  bully 
Jeff  jumped  me  whilst  I  wasn't  looking  and 

283 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

beat  me  up.  Hal  Rutherford  ordered  me  to  pull 
my  freight.  That's  all  right.  I  won't  interfere 
in  what  don't  concern  me.  Yore  family  says 
'Hands  off!'  Fine.  Suits  me.  Stay  there  or  get 
out.  It's  none  of  my  business.  See?" 

"You  don't  mean  you'll  .  .  .  leave  me  here?'* 
she  cried  in  horror. 

"Sure,"  he  exulted.  "If  I  pulled  you  out  of 
there,  like  as  not  you'd  have  me  beat  up  again. 
None  o'  my  business!  That's  what  yore  folks 
have  been  drilling  into  me.  I  reckon  they're 
right.  Anyhow,  I'll  play  it  safe." 

"But —  Oh,  you  can't  do  that.  Even  you 
can't  do  such  a  thing,"  she  cried  desperately. 
"Why,  men  don't  do  things  like  that." 

"Don't  they?  Watch  me,  missie."  He  leaned 
over  the  pit,  his  broken,  tobacco-stained  teeth 
showing  in  an  evil  grin.  "Just  keep  an  eye  on 
yore  Uncle  Dan.  Nobody  ever  yet  done  me  a 
meanness  and  got  away  with  it.  I  reckon  the 
Rutherfords  won't  be  the  first.  It  ain't  on  the 
cyards,"  he  boasted. 

"You 're  going  away  .  .  .  to  leave  me  here  .  .  . 
to  starve?" 

"Who  said  anything  about  going  away?  I'll 
stick  around  for  a  while.  It's  none  of  my  busi- 
ness whether  you  starve  or  live  high.  Do  just 

284 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

as  you  please  about  that.  I'll  let  you  alone,  like 
I  promised  Jeff  I  would.  You  Rutherfords  have 
got  no  call  to  object  to  being  starved,  anyhow. 
Whad  you  do  to  Dave  Ding  well  in  Chicito  9" 

After  all,  she  was  only  a  girl  in  spite  of  her 
little  feminine  ferocities  and  her  pride  and  her 
gameness.  She  had  passed  through  a  terrible 
experience,  had  come  out  of  it  to  apparent  safety 
and  had  been  thrown  back  into  despair.  It  was 
natural  that  sobs  should  shake  her  slender  body 
as  she  leaned  against  the  quartz  wall  of  her 
prison  and  buried  her  head  in  her  forearm. 

When  presently  the  sobs  grew  fewer  and  less 
violent,  Beulah  became  aware  without  looking 
up  that  her  tormentor  had  taken  away  his  ma- 
lignant presence.  This  was  at  first  a  relief,  but 
as  the  hours  passed  an  acute  fear  seized  her. 
Had  he  left  her  alone  to  die?  In  spite  of  her 
knowledge  of  the  man,  she  had  clung  to  the  hope 
that  he  would  relent.  But  if  he  had  gone  — 

She  began  again  to  call  at  short  intervals  for 
help.  Sometimes  tears  of  self-pity  choked  her 
voice.  More  than  once  she  beat  her  brown  fists 
against  the  rock  in  an  ecstasy  of  terror. 

Then  again  he  was  looking  down  at  her,  a 
hulk  of  venom,  eyes  bleared  with  the  liquor  he 
had  been  drinking. 

285 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Were  you  calling  me,  missie?"  he  jeered. 

"Let  me  out,"  she  demanded.  "When  my 
brothers  find  me  — " 

"If  they  find  you,"  he  corrected  with  a  hic- 
cough. 

"They'll  find  me.  By  this  time  everybody 
in  Huerfano  Park  is  searching  for  me.  Before 
night  half  of  Battle  Butte  will  be  in  the  saddle. 
Well,  when  they  find  me,  do  you  think  you  won't 
be  punished  for  this?" 

"For  what?"  demanded  the  man.  "You  fell 
in.  I  have  n't  touched  you." 

"Will  that  help  you,  do  you  think?" 

His  rage  broke  into  speech.  "You're  aimin* 
to  stop  my  clock,  are  you?  Take  another  guess, 
you  mischief -making  vixen.  What's  to  prevent 
me  from  emptying  my  forty-four  into  you  when 
I  get  good  and  ready,  then  hitting  the  trail  for 
Mexico?" 

She  knew  he  was  speaking  the  thoughts  that 
had  been  drifting  through  his  mind  in  whiskey- 
lit  ruminations.  That  he  was  a  wanton  killer 
she  had  always  heard.  If  he  could  persuade 
himself  it  could  be  done  with  safety,  he  would 
not  hesitate  to  make  an  end  of  her. 

This  was  the  sort  of  danger  she  could  fight 
against  —  and  she  did. 

286 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"I'll  tell  you  what's  to  prevent  you,"  she 
flung  back,  as  it  were  in  a  kind  of  careless  scorn. 
"Your  fondness  for  your  worthless  hide.  If  they 
find  me  shot  to  death,  they  will  know  who  did 
it.  You  could  n't  hide  deep  enough  in  Chihua- 
hua to  escape  them.  My  father  would  never  rest 
till  he  had  made  an  end  of  you." 

Her  argument  sounded  appallingly  reason- 
able to  him.  He  knew  the  Rutherfords.  They 
would  make  him  pay  his  debt  to  them  with 
usury. 

To  stimulate  his  mind  he  took  another  drink, 
after  which  he  stared  down  at  her  a  long  time 
in  sullen,  sulky  silence.  She  managed  at  the 
same  time  to  irritate  him  and  tempt  him  and 
fill  his  coward  heart  with  fear  of  consequences. 
Through  the  back  of  his  brain  from  the  first 
there  had  been  filtering  thoughts  that  were  like 
crouching  demons.  They  reached  toward  her 
and  drew  back  in  alarm.  He  was  too  white- 
livered  to  go  through  with  his  villainy  boldly. 

He  recorked  the  bottle  and  put  it  in  his  hip 
pocket.  "'Nough  said,"  he  blustered.  "Me, 
I'll  git  on  my  hawss  and  be  joggin'  along  to 
Mex.  I  '11  take  chances  on  their  finding  you  be- 
fore you  're  starved.  After  that  it  won't  matter 
to  me  when  they  light  on  yore  body." 

287 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  will,"  she  corrected  him  promptly. 
"I'm  going  to  write  a  note  and  tell  just  what 
has  happened.  It  will  be  found  beside  me  in 
case  they  .  .  .  don't  reach  here  in  time." 

The  veins  in  his  blotched  face  stood  out  as  he 
glared  down  at  her  while  he  adjusted  himself  to 
this  latest  threat.  Here,  too,  she  had  him.  He 
had  gone  too  far.  Dead  or  alive,  she  was  a  men- 
ace to  his  safety. 

Since  he  must  take  a  chance,  why  not  take  a 
bigger  one,  why  not  follow  the  instigation  of  the 
little  crouching  devils  in  his  brain?  He  leered 
down  at  her  with  what  was  meant  to  be  an  in- 
gratiating smile. 

"Sho!  What's  the  use  of  we  'uns  quarreling, 
Miss  Beulah?  I  ain't  got  nothing  against  you. 
Old  Dan  he  always  liked  you  fine.  I  reckon  you 
did  n't  know  that,  did  you?" 

Her  quick  glance  was  in  time  to  catch  his  face 
napping.  The  keen  eyes  of  the  girl  pounced  on 
his  and  dragged  from  them  a  glimpse  of  the  de- 
praved soul  of  the  ruffian.  Silently  and  warily 
she  watched  him. 

"I  done  had  my  little  joke,  my  dear,"  he  went 
on.  "Now  we '11  be  heap  good  friends.  Old  Dan 
ain't  such  a  bad  sort.  There's  lots  of  folks 
worse  than  Dan.  That's  right.  Now,  what 

288 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

was  that  you  said  a  while  ago  about  giving  me 
anything  I  wanted?" 

"I  said  my  father  would  pay  you  anything 
in  reason."  Her  throat  was  parched,  but  her 
eyes  were  hard  and  bright.  No  lithe  young 
panther  of  the  forest  could  have  been  more  alert 
than  she. 

"Leave  yore  dad  out  of  it.  He  ain't  here,  and, 
anyway,  I  ain't  having  any  truck  with  him. 
Just  say  the  word,  Miss  Beulah,  and  I'll  git  a 
pole  and  haul  you  up  in  a  jiffy." 

Beulah  made  a  mistake.  She  should  have 
waited  till  she  was  out  of  the  pit  before  she  faced 
the  new  issue.  But  her  horror  of  the  man  was 
overpowering.  She  unscabbarded  swiftly  the 
revolver  at  her  side  and  lifted  it  defiantly  to- 
ward him. 

"I '11  stay  here." 

Again  he  foamed  into  rage.  The  girl  had  stale- 
mated him  once  more.  "Then  stay,  you  little 
wild  cat.  You  've  had  yore  chance.  I  'm  through 
with  you."  He  bared  his  teeth  in  a  snarling  grin 
and  turned  his  back  on  her. 

Beulah  heard  him  slouching  away.  Presently 
there  came  the  sound  of  a  furiously  galloping 
horse.  The  drumming  of  the  hoofbeats  died  in 
the  distance. 

289 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

During  the  rest  of  the  day  she  saw  no  more 
of  the  man.  It  swept  over  her  toward  evening 
in  a  wave  of  despair  that  he  had  left  her  to 
her  fate. 


Chapter  XXIV 

The  Bad  Man  Decides  not  to  Shoot 

BETJLAH  woke  from  a  sleep  of  exhaustion  to 
a  world  into  which  the  morning  light  was 
just  beginning  to  sift.  The  cold  had  penetrated 
to  her  bones.  She  was  stiff  and  cramped  and 
sore  from  the  pressure  of  the  rock  bed  against 
her  tender  young  flesh.  For  nearly  two  days  she 
had  been  without  food  or  drink.  The  urge  of  life 
in  her  was  at  low  tide. 

But  the  traditions  among  which  she  had  been 
brought  up  made  pluck  a  paramount  virtue. 
She  pushed  from  her  the  desire  to  weep  in  self- 
pity  over  her  lot.  Though  her  throat  was  raw 
and  swollen,  she  called  at  regular  intervals  dur- 
ing the  morning  hours  while  the  sun  climbed 
into  view  of  her  ten-foot  beat.  Even  when  it 
rode  the  heavens  a  red-hot  cannon  ball  directly 
above  her,  the  hoarse  and  lonely  cry  of  the  girl 
echoed  back  from  the  hillside  every  few  min- 
utes. There  were  times  when  she  wanted  to 
throw  herself  down  and  give  up  to  despair,  but 
she  knew  there  would  be  opportunity  for  that 
when  she  could  no  longer  fight  for  her  life.  The 

291 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

shadow  was  beginning  to  climb  the  eastern  wall 
of  the  pit  before  Beaudry's  shout  reached  her 
ears  faintly.  Her  first  thought  was  that  she 
must  already  be  delirious.  Not  till  she  saw  him 
at  the  edge  of  the  prospect  hole  was  she  sure 
that  her  rescuer  was  a  reality. 

At  the  first  sight  of  her  Roy  wanted  to  trum- 
pet to  high  heaven  the  joy  that  flooded  his 
heart.  He  had  found  her  —  alive.  After  the 
torment  of  the  night  and  the  worry  of  the  day 
he  had  come  straight  to  her  in  his  wandering, 
and  he  had  reached  her  in  time. 

But  when  he  saw  her  condition  pity  welled 
up  in  him.  Dark  hollows  had  etched  themselves 
into  her  cheeks.  Tears  swam  in  her  eyes.  Her 
lips  trembled  weakly  from  emotion.  She  leaned 
against  the  side  of  the  pit  to  support  her  on  ac- 
count of  the  sudden  faintness  that  engulfed  her 
senses.  He  knelt  and  stretched  his  hands  toward 
her,  but  the  pit  was  too  deep. 

"You'll  have  to  get  a  pole  or  a  rope,"  she 
told  him  quietly. 

Beaudry  found  the  dead  trunk  of  a  young 
sapling  and  drew  the  girl  up  hand  over  hand. 
On  the  brink  she  stumbled  and  he  caught  her  in 
his  arms  to  save  her  from  falling  back  into  the 
prospect  hole. 

292 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

For  a  moment  she  lay  close  to  him,  heart 
beating  against  heart.  Then,  with  a  little  sob- 
bing sigh,  she  relaxed  and  began  to  weep.  Her 
tears  tugged  at  his  sympathy,  but  none  the  less 
the  pulses  pounded  in  his  veins.  He  held  her 
tight,  with  a  kind  of  savage  tenderness,  while 
his  body  throbbed  with  the  joy  of  her.  She  had 
come  to  him  with  the  same  sure  instinct  that 
brings  a  child  to  its  mother's  arms.  All  her  pride 
and  disdain  and  suspicion  had  melted  like  sum- 
mer mists  in  her  need  of  the  love  and  comfort 
he  could  give  her. 

"It's  all  right  now.  You're  safe.  Nothing 
can  hurt  you,"  he  promised. 

"I  know,  but  you  don't  know  —  what  — 
what  — "  She  broke  off,  shuddering. 

Still  with  his  arm  about  her,  he  led  Beulah  to 
his  horse.  Here  he  made  her  sit  down  while  he 
gave  her  water  and  food.  Bit  by  bit  she  told  him 
the  story  of  her  experience.  He  suffered  poig- 
nantly with  her,  but  he  could  not  be  grateful 
enough  that  the  finger-tip  of  destiny  had 
pointed  him  to  her  prison.  He  thanked  his 
rather  vague  gods  that  it  had  been  his  footsteps 
rather  than  those  of  another  man  that  had 
wandered  here  to  save  her. 

What  surprised  and  wholly  delighted  him 
293 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

was  the  feminine  quality  of  her.  He  had  thought 
of  her  before  as  a  wild  young  creature  full  of 
pride  and  scorn  and  anger,  but  with  a  fine  bar- 
baric loyalty  that  might  yet  redeem  her  from 
her  faults.  He  had  never  met  a  young  woman  so 
hard,  so  self-reliant.  She  had  asked  no  odds  be- 
cause of  her  sex.  Now  all  this  harshness  had 
melted.  No  strange  child  could  have  been  more 
shy  and  gentle.  She  had  put  herself  into  his 
hands  and  seemed  to  trust  him  utterly.  His 
casual  opinions  were  accepted  by  her  as  if  they 
had  been  judgments  of  Solomon. 

Roy  spread  his  blankets  and  put  the  saddle- 
bags down  for  a  pillow. 

"We're  not  going  to  stay  here  to-night,  are 
we?"  she  asked,  surprised. 

He  smiled.  "No,  you're  going  to  lie  down 
and  sleep  for  an  hour.  When  you  wake,  supper 
will  be  ready.  You're  all  in  now,  but  with  a 
little  rest  you  will  be  fit  to  travel." 

"You  won't  go  away  while  I  sleep,"  she  said. 

"Do  you  think  it  likely?  No,  you  can't  get 
rid  of  me  that  easy.  I'm  a  regular  adhesive 
plaster  for  sticking." 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  rid  of  you,"  she  answered 
naively.  "I'd  be  afraid  without  you.  Will  you 
promise  to  stay  close  all  the  time  I  sleep?" 

294 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Yes." 

"I  know  I  won't  sleep,  but  if  you  want  me  to 
try- 

"I  do." 

She  snuggled  down  into  the  blankets  and  was 
asleep  in  five  minutes. 

Beaudry  watched  her  with  hungry  eyes. 
What  was  the  use  of  denying  to  himself  that  he 
loved  her?  If  he  had  not  known  it  before,  the 
past  half -hour  had  made  it  clear  to  him.  With 
those  wan  shadows  below  her  long  eye-lashes 
and  that  charming  manner  of  shy  dependence 
upon  him,  she  was  infinitely  more  attractive  to 
him  than  she  had  ever  been  before. 

Beulah  Rutherford  was  not  the  kind  of  girl 
he  had  thought  of  as  a  sweetheart  in  his  day- 
dreams. His  fancies  had  hovered  hazily  about 
some  imaginary  college  girl,  one  skilled  in  the 
finesse  of  the  rules  that  society  teaches  young 
women  in  self-defense.  Instead,  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  a  girl  who  could  not  play  the  social 
game  at  all.  She  was  almost  the  only  one  he  had 
known  who  never  used  any  perfume;  yet  her 
atmosphere  was  fragrant  as  one  of  the  young 
pines  in  her  own  mountain  park.  The  young 
school-teacher  was  vital,  passionate,  and  —  he 
suspected  —  fiercely  tender.  For  her  lover  there 

295 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

would  be  rare  gifts  in  her  eyes,  wonderful  lar- 
gesse in  her  smile.  The  man  who  could  qualify 
as  her  husband  must  be  clean  and  four-square 
and  game  from  the  soles  of  his  feet  up  —  such  a 
man  as  Dave  Dingwell,  except  that  the  cattle- 
man was  ten  years  too  old  for  her. 

Her  husband!  What  was  he  thinking  about? 
Roy  brought  his  bolting  thoughts  up  with  a 
round  turn.  There  could  be  no  question  of  mar- 
riage between  her  father's  daughter  and  his 
father's  son.  Hal  Rutherford  had  put  that  out 
of  doubt  on  the  day  when  he  had  ridden  to  the 
Elephant  Corral  to  murder  Sheriff  Beaudry. 
No  decent  man  could  marry  the  daughter  of  the 
man  who  had  killed  his  father  in  cold  blood. 
Out  of  such  a  wedding  could  come  only  sorrow 
and  tragedy. 

And  if  this  were  not  bar  enough  between 
them,  there  was  another.  Beulah  Rutherford 
could  never  marry  a  man  who  was  a  physical 
coward.  It  was  a  dear  joy  to  his  soul  that  she 
had  broken  down  and  wept  and  clung  to  him. 
But  this  was  the  sex  privilege  of  even  a  brave 
woman.  A  man  had  to  face  danger  with  a  nerve 
of  tested  iron,  and  that  was  a  thing  he  could 
never  do. 

Roy  was  stretched  on  the  moss  face  down,  his 
296 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

chin  resting  on  the  two  cupped  palms  of  his 
hands.  Suddenly  he  sat  up,  every  nerve  tense 
and  alert.  Silently  he  got  to  his  feet  and  stole 
down  into  the  aspen  grove.  With  great  caution 
he  worked  his  way  into  the  grove  and  peered 
through  to  the  hillside  beyond.  A  man  was 
standing  by  the  edge  of  the  prospect  hole.  He 
was  looking  down  into  it.  Young  Beaudry  rec- 
ognized the  heavy,  slouch  figure  at  the  first 
glance. 

Not  for  an  instant  did  he  hesitate  about  what 
he  meant  to  do.  The  hour  had  come  when  he 
and  Dan  Meldrum  must  have  an  accounting. 
From  its  holster  he  drew  his  revolver  and  crept 
forward  toward  the  bad  man.  His  eyes  were 
cold  and  hard  as  chilled  steel.  He  moved  with 
the  long,  soft  stride  of  a  panther  crouched  for 
the  kill.  Not  till  the  whole  thing  was  over  did  he 
remember  that  for  once  the  ghost  of  fear  had 
been  driven  from  his  soul.  He  thought  only  of 
the  wrongs  of  Beulah  Rutherford,  the  girl  who 
had  fallen  asleep  in  the  absolute  trust  that  he 
would  guard  her  from  all  danger.  This  scoun- 
drel had  given  her  two  days  of  living  hell.  Roy 
swore  to  pay  the  fellow  in  full. 

Meldrum  turned.  He  recognized  Beaudry 
with  a  snarl  of  rage  and  terror.  Except  one  of 

297 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

the  Rutherfords  there  was  no  man  on  earth  he 
less  wanted  to  meet.  The  forty -four  in  his  hand 
jerked  up  convulsively.  The  miscreant  was  in 
two  minds  whether  to  let  fly  or  wait. 

Roy  did  not  even  falter  in  his  stride.  He  did 
not  raise  the  weapon  in  his  loosely  hanging  hand. 
His  eyes  bored  as  steadily  as  gimlets  into  the 
craven  heart  of  the  outlaw. 

Meldrum,  in  a  panic,  warned  him  back.  His 
nerve  was  gone.  For  two  days  he  had  been 
drinking  hard,  but  the  liquor  had  given  out  at 
midnight.  He  needed  a  bracer  badly.  This  was 
no  time  for  him  to  go  through  with  a  finish  fight 
against  such  a  man  as  Beaudry. 

"Keep  yore  distance  and  tell  me  what  you 
want,"  the  ex-convict  repeated  hoarsely.  "If 
you  don't,  I'll  gun  you  sure." 

The  young  cattleman  stopped  about  five 
yards  from  him.  He  knew  exactly  what  terms 
he  meant  to  give  the  enemy. 

"Put  your  gun  up,"  he  ordered  sharply. 

"Who's  with  you?" 

"Never  mind  who  is  with  me.  I  can  play  this 
hand  alone.  Put  up  that  gun  and  then  we'll 
talk." 

That  suited  Meldrum.  If  it  was  a  question  of 
explanations,  perhaps  he  could  whine  his  way 

298 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

out  of  this.  What  he  had  been  afraid  of  was  im- 
mediate battle.  One  cannot  talk  bullets  aside. 

Slowly  he  pushed  his  revolver  into  its  holster, 
but  the  hand  of  the  man  rested  still  on  the 
butt. 

"I  came  back  to  help  Miss  Rutherford  out 
of  this  prospect  hole,"  he  whimperingly  com- 
plained. "When  onc't  I  got  sober,  I  done  re- 
called that  she  was  here.  So  I  hit  the  trail 
back." 

Meldrum  spoke  the  exact  truth.  When  the 
liquor  was  out  of  him,  he  became  frightened  at 
what  he  had  done.  He  had  visions  of  New 
Mexico  hunting  him  down  like  a  wild  dog.  At 
last,  unable  to  stand  it  any  longer,  he  had  come 
back  to  free  her. 

"That's  good.  Saves  me  the  trouble  of  look- 
ing for  you.  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  choice. 
You  and  I  can  settle  this  thing  with  guns  right 
here  and  now.  That 's  one  way  out  for  you.  I  '11 
kill  you  where  you  stand." 

"W  —  what's  the  other  way?"  stammered 
the  outlaw. 

"The  other  way  is  for  you  to  jump  into  that 
prospect  hole.  I'll  ride  away  and  leave  you 
there  to  starve." 

"Goddlemighty!  You  wouldn't  do  that," 
299 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Meldrum  wheedled.  "I  didn't  go  for  to  hurt 
Miss  Rutherford  any.  Did  n't  I  tell  you  I  was 
drunk?" 

"Dead  or  alive,  you're  going  into  that  pros- 
pect hole.  Make  up  your  mind  to  that." 

The  bad  man  moistened  his  dry  lips  with  the 
tip  of  his  tongue.  He  stole  one  furtive  glance 
around.  Could  he  gun  this  man  and  make  his 
getaway? 

"Are  any  of  the  Rutherfords  back  of  that 
clump  of  aspens?  "  he  asked  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"Yes." 

"Do  ...  do  they  know  I'm  here?" 

"Not  yet." 

Tiny  beads  of  sweat  stood  out  on  the  blotched 
face  of  the  rustler.  He  was  trapped.  Even  if  he 
fired  through  the  leather  holster  and  killed 
Beaudry,  there  would  be  no  escape  for  him  on 
his  tired  horse. 

"Gimme  a  chanc't,"  he  pleaded  desperately. 
"Honest  to  God,  I '11  clear  out  of  the  country  for 
good.  I  '11  quit  helling  around  and  live  decent. 
I'll—" 

"You'll  go  into  the  pit." 

Meldrum  knew  as  he  looked  into  that  white, 
set  face  that  he  had  come  to  his  day  of  judg- 
ment, But  he  mumbled  a  last  appeal. 

300 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"I'm  an  old  man,  Mr.  Beaudry.  I  ain't  got 
many  years  — " 

"Have  you  made  your  choice?"  cut  in  Roy 
coldly. 

"I'd  do  anything  you  say  —  go  anywhere  — 
give  my  Bible  oath  never  to  come  back." 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  call  Rutherford." 

The  bad  man  made  a  trembling  clutch  toward 
him.  "Don't  you,  Mr.  Beaudry.  I'll  —  I'll  go 
into  the  pit,"  he  sobbed. 

"Get  in,  then." 

"I  know  you  wouldn't  leave  me  there  to 
starve.  That  would  be  an  awful  thing  to  do," 
the  killer  begged. 

"You're  finding  that  out  late.  It  didn't 
worry  you  when  Dave  Dingwell  was  being 
starved." 

"I  had  n't  a  thing  to  do  with  that  —  not  a 
thing,  Mr.  Beaudry.  Hal  Rutherford,  he  give 
the  order  and  it  was  up  to  me  to  go  through. 
Honest,  that  was  the  way  of  it." 

"And  you  could  starve  a  girl  who  needed  your 
help.  That  was  all  right,  of  course." 

"Mr.  Beaudry,  I  —  I  was  only  learning  her 
a  lesson  —  just  kinder  playing,  y'  understand. 
Why,  I've  knowed  Miss  Beulah  ever  since 
she  was  a  little  bit  of  a  trick.  I  would  n't 

301 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

do  her  a  meanness.  It  ain't  reasonable,  now, 
is  it?" 

The  man  fawned  on  Roy.  His  hands  were 
shaking  with  fear.  If  it  would  have  done  any 
good,  he  would  have  fallen  on  his  knees  and 
wept.  The  sight  of  him  made  Roy  sick.  Was 
this  the  way  he  looked  when  the  yellow  streak 
was  showing? 

"Jump  into  that  pit,"  he  ordered  in  disgust. 
"That  is,  unless  you'd  rather  I  would  call 
Rutherford." 

Meldrum  shambled  to  the  edge,  sat  down, 
turned,  and  slid  into  the  prospect  hole. 

"I  know  it's  only  yore  little  joke,  Mr.  Beau- 
dry,"  he  whined.  "Mebbe  I  ain't  jest  been 
neighborly  with  you-all,  but  what  I  say  is  let 
bygones  be  bygones.  I'm  right  sorry.  I'll  go 
down  with  you  to  Battle  Butte  and  tell  the  boys 
I  done  wrong." 

"No,  you '11  stay  here." 

Beaudry  turned  away.  The  muffled  scream 
of  the  bad  man  followed  him  as  far  as  the  aspens. 


Chapter  XXV 
Two  and  a  Camp-Fire 

ROY  worked  his  way  through  the  aspens  and 
returned  to  the  place  where  he  had  left 
Beulah.  She  was  still  sleeping  soundly  and  did 
not  stir  at  his  approach.  Quietly  he  built  a  fire 
and  heated  water  for  coffee.  From  his  saddle- 
bags he  took  sandwiches  wrapped  in  a  news- 
paper. Beside  the  girl  he  put  his  canteen,  a 
pocket  comb,  a  piece  of  soap,  and  the  bandanna 
he  wore  around  his  neck.  Then,  reluctantly,  he 
awakened  her. 

"Supper  will  be  served  in  just  five  minutes," 
he  announced  with  a  smile. 

She  glanced  at  the  scant  toilet  facilities  and 
nodded  her  head  decisively.  "Thank  you,  kind 
sir.  I'll  be  on  hand." 

The  young  woman  rose,  glanced  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  aspens,  gathered  up  the  supplies,  and 
fled  to  the  grove.  The  eyes  of  Beaudry  followed 
her  flight.  The  hour  of  sleep  had  been  enough 
to  restore  her  resilience.  She  moved  with  the 
strong  lightness  that  always  reminded  him  of 
wild  woodland  creatures. 

303 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

In  spite  of  her  promise  Beulah  was  away  be- 
yond the  time  limit.  Beaudry  became  a  little 
uneasy.  It  was  not  possible,  of  course,  that 
Meldrum  could  have  escaped  from  the  pit. 
And  yet  — 

He  called  to  her.  "Is  every  little  thing  all 
right,  neighbor?" 

"All  right,"  she  answered. 

A  moment  later  she  emerged  from  the  aspens 
and  came  toward  the  camp.  She  was  panting  a 
little,  as  if  she  had  been  running. 

"Quite  a  hill,"  he  commented. 

She  gave  him  a  quick  glance.  There  was  in  it 
shy  curiosity,  but  her  dark  eyes  held,  too,  an 
emotion  more  profound. 

"Yes,"*  she  said.  "It  makes  one  breathe 
fast." 

Miss  Rutherford  had  improved  her  time. 
The  disorderly  locks  had  been  hairpinned  into 
place.  From  her  face  all  traces  of  the  dried 
tears  were  washed.  Pit  clay  no  longer  stained 
the  riding-skirt. 

Sandwiches  and  coffee  made  their  meal,  but 
neither  of  them  had  ever  more  enjoyed  eating. 
Beulah  was  still  ravenously  hungry,  though  she 
restrained  her  appetite  decorously. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  am  lost,"  he  ex- 
304 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

plained.  "Unless  you  can  guide  me  out  of  this 
labyrinth  of  hills,  we'll  starve  to  death." 

"I  can  take  you  straight  to  the  park." 

"But  we're  not  going  to  the  park.  Every- 
body is  out  looking  for  you.  We  are  to  follow 
Del  Oro  down  to  the  flats.  The  trouble  is  that 
I've  lost  Del  Oro,"  he  grinned. 

"It  is  just  over  the  hill." 

After  refreshments  he  brought  up  his  pinto 
horse  and  helped  her  to  the  saddle.  She  achieved 
the  mount  very  respectably.  With  a  confiden- 
tial little  laugh  she  took  him  into  the  secret  of 
her  success. 

"I've  been  practicing  with  dad.  He  has  to 
help  me  up  every  time  I  go  riding." 

They  crossed  to  Del  Oro  in  the  dusk  and  fol- 
lowed the  trail  by  the  creek  in  the  moonlight. 
In  the  starlight  night  her  dusky  beauty  set  his 
pulses  throbbing.  The  sweet  look  of  her  dark- 
lashed  eyes  stirred  strange  chaos  in  him.  They 
talked  little,  for  she,  too,  felt  a  delicious  emo- 
tion singing  in  the  currents  of  her  blood.  When 
their  shy  eyes  met,  it  was  with  a  queer  little 
thrill  as  if  they  had  kissed  each  other. 

It  was  late  when  they  reached  the  flats. 
There  was  no  sign  of  Charlton's  party. 

"The  flats  run  for  miles  each  way.  We  might 
305 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

wander  all  night  and  not  find  them,"  Beulah 
mentioned. 

"Then  we'll  camp  right  here  and  look  for 
them  in  the  morning,"  decided  Roy  promptly. 

Together  they  built  a  camp-fire.  Roy  re- 
turned from  picketing  the  horse  to  find  her  sit- 
ting on  a  blanket  in  the  dancing  light  of  the 
flickering  flames.  Her  happy,  flushed  face  was 
like  the  promise  of  a  summer  day  at  dawn. 

In  that  immensity  of  space,  with  night's  mil- 
lion candles  far  above  them  and  the  great  hills 
at  their  backs,  the  walls  that  were  between 
them  seemed  to  vanish. 

Their  talk  was  intimate  and  natural.  It  had 
the  note  of  comradeship,  took  for  granted  sym- 
pathy and  understanding. 

He  showed  her  the  picture  of  his  mother.  By 
the  fire  glow  she  studied  it  intently.  Her  eyes 
brimmed  with  tears. 

"She's  so  lovely  and  so  sweet  —  and  she  had 
to  go  away  and  leave  her  little  baby  when  she 
was  so  young.  I  don't  wonder  you  worship  her. 
I  would,  too." 

Roy  did  not  try  to  thank  her  in  words.  He 
choked  up  in  his  throat  and  nodded. 

''  You  can  see  how  fine  and  dainty  she  was," 
the  girl  went  on.  "I'd  rather  be  like  that  than 

306 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

anything  else  in  the  world  —  and,  of  course,  I 
never  can  be." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  protested 
warmly.  "You're  as  fine  as  they  grow." 

She  smiled,  a  little  wistfully.  "Nice  of  you  to 
say  so,  but  I  know  better.  I  'm  not  a  lady.  I  'm 
just  a  harum-scarum,  tempery  girl  that  grew  up 
in  the  hills.  If  I  did  n't  know  it,  that  would  n't 
matter.  But  I  do  know  it,  and  so  like  a  little 
idiot  I  pity  myself  because  I'm  not  like  nice 
girls." 

"Thank  Heaven,  you're  not!"  he  cried. 
"I've  never  met  a  girl  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to 
you.  Why,  you're  the  freest,  bravest,  sweetest 
thing  that  ever  lived." 

The  hot  blood  burned  slowly  into  her  cheek 
under  its  dusky  coloring.  His  words  were  music 
to  her,  and  yet  they  did  not  satisfy. 

:<You're  wrapping  it  up  nicely,  but  we  both 
know  that  I'm  a  vixen  when  I  get  angry,"  she 
said  quietly.  "We  used  to  have  an  old  Indian 
woman  work  for  us.  When  I  was  just  a  wee 
bit  of  a  thing  she  called  me  Little  Cactus 
Tongue." 

"That's  nothing.  The  boys  were  probably 
always  teasing  you  and  you  defended  yourself. 
In  a  way  the  life  you  have  led  has  made  you 

307 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

hard.  But  it  is  just  a  surface  hardness  nature 
has  provided  as  a  protection  to  you." 

"Since  it  is  there,  I  don't  see  that  it  helps 
much  to  decide  why  it  is  a  part  of  me,"  she 
returned  with  a  wan  little  smile. 

"But  it  does,"  he  insisted.  "It  matters  a  lot. 
The  point  is  that  it  is  n't  you  at  all.  Some  day 
you'll  slough  it  the  way  a  butterfly  does  its 
shell." 

"When?"  she  wanted  to  know  incredulously. 

He  did  not  look  at  her  while  he  blurted  out 
his  answer.  "When  you  are  happily  married  to 
a  man  you  love  who  loves  you." 

"Oh!  I'm  afraid  that  will  be  never."  She 
tried  to  say  it  lightly,  but  her  face  glowed  from 
the  heat,  of  an  inward  fire. 

"There's  a  deep  truth  in  the  story  of  the 
princess  who  slept  the  years  away  until  the 
prince  came  along  and  touched  her  lips  with  his. 
Don't  you  think  lots  of  people  are  hampered  by 
their  environment?  All  they  need  is  escape." 
He  suggested  this  with  a  shy  diffidence. 

"Oh,  we  all  make  that  excuse  for  ourselves," 
she  answered  with  a  touch  of  impatient  scorn. 
"I'm  all  the  time  doing  it.  I  say  if  things  were 
different  I  would  be  a  nice,  sweet-tempered, 
gentle  girl  and  not  fly  out  like  that  Katherine  in 

308 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Shakespeare's  play.  But  I  know  all  the  time  it 
isn't  true.  We  have  to  conquer  ourselves. 
There  is  no  city  of  refuge  from  our  own  tem- 
peraments." 

He  felt  sure  there  was  a  way  out  from  her 
fretted  life  for  this  deep-breasted,  supple  daugh- 
ter of  the  hills  if  she  could  only  find  it.  She  had 
breathed  an  atmosphere  that  made  for  suspicion 
and  harshness.  All  her  years  she  had  been 
forced  to  fight  to  save  herself  from  shame.  But 
Roy,  as  he  looked  at  her,  imaged  another  picture 
of  Beulah  Rutherford.  Little  children  clung  to 
her  knees  and  called  her  "Mother."  She  bent 
over  them  tenderly,  her  face  irradiated  with 
love.  A  man  whose  features  would  not  come 
clear  strode  toward  her  and  the  eyes  she  lifted  to 
his  were  pools  of  light. 

Beaudry  drew  a  deep  breath  and  looked  away 
from  her  into  the  fire.  "I  wish  time  would  solve 
my  problem  as  surely  as  it  will  yours,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  eagerly,  lips  parted,  but 
she  would  not  in  words  invite  his  confession. 

The  young  man  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand 
as  if  to  screen  them  from  the  fire,  but  she  noticed 
that  the  back  of  his  hand  hid  them  from  her, 
too.  He  found  a  difficulty  in  beginning.  When 
at  last  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  rough  with  feeling. 

309 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Of  course,  you'll  despise  me  —  you  of  all 
people.  How  could  you  help  it?" 

Her  body  leaned  toward  him  ever  so  slightly. 
Love  lit  her  face  like  a  soft  light. 

"Shall  I?  How  do  you  know?" 

"It  cuts  so  deep  —  goes  to  the  bottom  of 
things.  If  a  fellow  is  wild  or  even  bad,  he  may 
redeem  himself.  But  you  can't  make  a  man  out 
of  a  yellow  cur.  The  stuff  is  n't  there."  The 
words  came  out  jerkily  as  if  with  some  physical 
difficulty. 

"If  you  mean  about  coming  up  to  the  park,  I 
know  about  that,"  she  said  gently.  "Mr.  Ding- 
well  told  father.  I  think  it  was  splendid  of 
you." 

"  No,  that  is  n't  it.  I  knew  I  was  right  in  com- 
ing and  that  some  day  you  would  understand." 
He  dropped  the  hand  from  his  face  and  looked 
straight  at  her.  "Dave  did  n't  tell  your  father 
that  I  had  to  be  flogged  into  going,  did  he?  He 
did  n't  tell  him  that  I  tried  to  dodge  out  of  it 
with  excuses." 

"Of  course,  you  were  n't  anxious  to  throw  up 
your  own  affairs  and  run  into  danger  for  a  man 
you  had  never  met.  Why  should  you  be  wild 
for  the  chance.  But  you  went." 

"Oh,  I  went.  I  had  to  go.  Ryan  put  it  up  to 
310 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

me  so  that  there  was  no  escape,"  was  his  dogged, 
almost  defiant,  answer. 

"I  know  better,"  the  girl  corrected  quickly. 
"You  put  it  up  to  yourself.  You're  that  way." 

"Am  I?"  He  flashed  a  questioning  look  at 
her.  "Then,  since  you  know  that,  perhaps  you 
know,  too,  what  —  what  I'm  trying  to  tell 

you." 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  she  whispered  softly  to  the 
fire. 

There  was  panic  in  his  eyes.  ' — That  .  .  . 
that  I  - 

" —  That  you  are  sensitive  and  have  a  good 
deal  of  imagination,"  the  girl  concluded  gently. 

"No,  I'll  not  feed  my  vanity  with  pleasant 
lies  to-night."  He  gave  a  little  gesture  of  self- 
scorn  as  he  rose  to  throw  some  dry  sticks  on  the 
fire.  "What  I  mean  and  what  you  mean  is  that 
-  that  I  'm  an  arrant  coward."  Roy  gulped  the 
last  words  out  as  if  they  burned  his  throat. 

"I  don't  mean  that  at  all,"  she  flamed.  " How 
can  you  say  such  a  thing  about  yourself  when 
everybody  knows  that  you're  the  bravest  man 
in  Washington  County?" 

"No  —  no.  I'm  a  born  trembler."  From 
where  he  stood  beyond  the  fire  he  looked  across 
at  her  with  dumb  anguish  in  his  eyes.  "  You  say 

311 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

yourself  you  've  noticed  it.  Probably  everybody 
that  knows  me  has." 

"I  didn't  say  that."  Her  dark  eyes  chal- 
lenged his  very  steadily.  "What  I  said  was 
that  you  have  too  much  imagination  to  rush 
into  danger  recklessly.  You  picture  it  all  out 
vividly  beforehand  and  it  worries  you.  Isn't 
that  the  way  of  it?" 

He  nodded,  ashamed. 

"But  when  the  time  comes,  nobody  could  be 
braver  than  you,"  she  went  on.  "You've  been 
tried  out  a  dozen  times  in  the  last  three  months. 
You  have  always  made  good." 

"Made  good!  If  you  only  knew!"  he  an- 
swered bitterly. 

"Knew  what?  I  saw  you  down  at  Hart's 
when  Dan  Meldrum  ordered  you  to  kneel  and 
beg.  But  you  gamed  it  out,  though  you  knew 
he  meant  to  kill  you." 

He  flushed  beneath  the  tan.  "I  was  too  par- 
alyzed to  move.  That's  the  simple  truth." 

"Were  you  too  paralyzed  to  move  down  at 
the  arcade  of  the  Silver  Dollar?"  she  flashed  at 
him. 

"It  was  the  drink  in  me.  I  was  n't  used  to  it 
and  it  went  to  my  head." 

"Had  you  been  drinking  that  time  at  the 
312 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

depot?"  she  asked  with  a  touch  of  friendly 
irony. 

"That  wasn't  courage.  If  it  would  have 
saved  me,  I  would  have  run  like  a  rabbit.  But 
there  was  no  chance.  The  only  hope  I  had  was 
to  throw  a  fear  into  him.  But  all  the  time  I  was 
sick  with  terror." 

She  rose  and  walked  round  the  camp-fire  to 
him.  Her  eyes  were  shining  with  a  warm  light  of 
admiration.  Both  hands  went  out  to  him  impul- 
sively. 

"My  friend,  that  is  the  only  kind  of  courage 
really  worth  having.  That  kind  you  earn.  It  is 
yours  because  it  is  born  of  the  spirit.  You  have 
fought  for  it  against  the  weakness  of  the  flesh 
and  the  timidity  of  your  own  soul.  Some  men 
are  born  without  sense  or  imagination.  They 
don't  know  enough  to  be  afraid.  But  the  man 
who  tramples  down  a  great  fear  wins  his  courage 
by  earning  it."  She  laughed  a  little,  to  make 
light  of  her  own  enthusiasm.  "Oh,  I  know  I'm 
preaching  like  a  little  prig.  But  it's  the  truth, 
just  the  same." 

At  the  touch  of  her  fingers  his  pulses  throbbed. 
But  once  more  he  tried  to  make  her  under- 
stand. 

"No,  I've  had  luck  all  the  way  through.  Do 
318 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

you  remember  that  night  at  the  cabin  —  before 
we  went  up  the  canon?" 

"Yes." 

"Some  one  shot  at  me  as  I  ran  into  the  cabin. 
I  was  so  frightened  that  I  piled  all  the  furniture 
against  the  door  and  hid  in  the  cellar.  It  was 
always  that  way  with  me.  I  used  to  jump  if 
anybody  rode  up  unexpectedly  at  the  ranch. 
Every  little  thing  set  my  nerves  fluttering." 

"But  it  is  n't  so  now." 
*  "No,  not  so  much." 

"That's  what  I'm  telling  you,"  she  tri- 
umphed. "You  came  out  here  from  a  soft  life 
in  town.  But  you've  grown  tough  because  you 
set  your  teeth  to  go  through  no  matter  what 
the  cost.  I  wish  I  could  show  you  how  much 
I  ...  admire  you.  Dad  feels  that  way,  too.  So 
does  Ned." 

"But  I  don't  deserve  it.  That's  what  humili- 
ates me." 

" Don't  you?  "  She  poured  out  her  passionate 
protest.  "Do  you  think  I  don't  know  what 
happened  back  there  at  the  prospect  hole?  Do 
you  think  I  don't  know  that  you  put  Dan 
Meldrum  down  in  the  pit  —  and  him  with  a 
gun  in  his  hand?  Was  it  a  coward  that  did 
that?" 

314 


With  a  gesture  wholly  savage  and  feminine  her  firm  arms  crept  about 
his  neck  and  fastened  there 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"So  you  knew  that  all  the  time,"  he  cried. 

"I  heard  him  calling  you  —  and  I  went  close. 
Yes,  I  knew  it.  But  you  would  never  have  told 
me  because  it  might  seem  like  bragging." 

"It  was  easy  enough.  I  was  n't  thinking  of 
myself,  but  of  you.  He  saw  I  meant  business 
and  he  wilted." 

"You  were  thinking  about  me  —  and  you 
forgot  to  be  afraid,"  the  girl  exulted. 

"Yes,  that  was  it."  A  wave  of  happiness 
broke  over  his  heart  as  the  sunlight  does  across 
a  valley  at  dawn.  "I 'm  always  thinking  of  you. 
Day  and  night  you  fill  my  thoughts,  hillgirl. 
When  I  'm  riding  the  range  —  whatever  I  do  — 
you're  with  me  all  the  time." 

"Yes." 

Her  lips  were  slightly  parted,  eyes  eager  and 
hungry.  The  heart  of  the  girl  drank  in  his 
words  as  the  thirsty  roots  of  a  rosebush  do 
water.  She  took  a  long  deep  breath  and  began 
to  tremble. 

"  I  think  of  you  as  the  daughter  of  the  sun  and 
the  wind.  Some  day  you  will  be  the  mother  of 
heroes,  the  wife  of  a  man  — " 

"Yes,"  she  prompted  again,  and  the  face 
lifted  to  his  was  flushed  with  innocent  passion. 

The  shy  invitation  of  her  dark-lashed  eyes 
315 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

was  not  to  be  denied.  He  flung  away  discretion 
and  snatched  her  into  his  arms.  An  inarticulate 
little  sound  welled  up  from  her  throat,  and  with 
a  gesture  wholly  savage  and  feminine  her  firm 
arms  crept  about  his  neck  and  fastened  there. 


Chapter  XXVI 
The  Sins  of  the  Fathers 

THEY  spoke  at  first  only  in  that  lovers' 
Esperanto  which  is  made  up  of  fond  kisses 
and  low  murmurs  and  soft  caresses.  From  these 
Beulah  was  the  first  to  emerge. 

"Would  you  marry  a  girl  off  the  range?"  she 
whispered.  "Would  you  dare  take  her  home  to 
your  people?" 

"I  haven't  any  people.  There  are  none  of 
them  left  but  me." 

"To  your  friends,  then?" 

"My  friends  will  be  proud  as  punch.  They'll 
wonder  how  I  ever  hypnotized  you  into  caring 
for  me." 

"But  I'm  only  a  hillgirl,"  she  protested. 
"Are  you  sure  you  won't  be  ashamed  of  me, 
dear?" 

"Certain  sure.  I'm  a  very  sensible  chap  at 
bottom,  and  I  know  when  I  have  the  best  there 


is." 


"Ah,  you  think  that  now  because  — " 
"Because  of  my  golden  luck  in  winning  the 
most  wonderful  girl  I  ever  met."  In  the  fling  of 

317 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

the  fire  glow  he  made  a  discovery  and  kissed 
it.  "I  did  n't  know  before  that  you  had 
dimples." 

"There  are  lots  of  things  you  don't  know 
about  me.  Some  of  them  you  won't  like.  But  if 
you  love  me,  perhaps  you'll  forgive  them,  and 
then  -  -  because  I  love  you  —  maybe  I  '11  grow 
out  of  them.  I  feel  to-night  as  if  anything  were 
possible.  The  most  wonderful  thing  that  ever 
happened  to  me  has  come  into  my  life." 

"My  heart  is  saying  that,  too,  sweetheart." 

"I  love  to  hear  you  say  that  I'm  —  nice," 
she  confided.  "Because,  you  know,  lots  of  peo- 
ple don't  think  so.  The  best  people  in  Battle 
Butte  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  me.  I  'm 
one  of  the  Rutherford  gang." 

The  light  was  full  on  his  face,  so  that  she  saw 
the  dawning  horror  in  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it?  What  are  you  thinking?"  she 
cried. 

He  gave  a  little  groan  and  his  hands  fell 
slackly  from  her.  "I'd  forgotten."  The  words 
came  in  a  whisper,  as  if  he  spoke  to  himself 
rather  than  to  her. 

"Forgotten  what?"  she  echoed;  and  like  a 
flash  added:  "That  I'm  a  Rutherford.  Is  that 
what  you  mean?" 

318 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"That  you  are  the  daughter  of  Hal  Ruther- 
ford and  that  I'm  the  son  of  John  Beaudry." 

:<You  mean  that  you  would  be  ashamed  to 
marry  a  Rutherford,"  she  said,  her  face  white  in 
the  fire  glow. 

"No."  He  brushed  her  challenge  aside  and 
went  straight  to  what  was  in  his  mind.  "I'm 
thinking  of  what  happened  seventeen  years 
ago,"  he  answered  miserably. 

"What  did  happen  that  could  come  between 
you  and  me  to-night?" 

"Have  you  forgotten,  too?"  He  turned  to 
the  fire  with  a  deep  breath  that  was  half  a 
sob. 

"What  is  it?  Tell  me,"  she  demanded. 

"Your  father  killed  mine  at  Battle  Butte." 

A  shiver  ran  through  her  lithe,  straight  body. 
"No  ...  No!  Say  it  is  n't  true,  Roy." 

"It's  true.  I  was  there  .  .  .  Didn't  they 
ever  tell  you  about  it?" 

"I've  heard  about  the  fight  when  Sheriff 
Beaudry  was  killed.  Jess  Tighe  had  his  spine 
injured  in  it.  But  I  never  knew  that  dad  .  .  . 
You're  sure  of  it?"  she  flung  at  him. 

"Yes.  He  led  the  attackers.  I  suppose  he 
thought  of  it  as  a  feud.  My  father  had  killed 
one  of  his  people  in  a  gun  fight." 

319 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

She,  too,  looked  into  the  fire.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  she  spoke,  and  then  in  a  small,  life- 
less voice.  "I  suppose  you  .  .  .  hate  me." 

"Hate  you ! "  His  voice  shook  with  agitation. 
"That  would  make  everything  easy.  But  — 
there  is  no  other  woman  in  the  world  for  me  but 
you." 

Almost  savagely  she  turned  toward  him. 
"Do  you  meant  that?" 

"I  never  mean  anything  so  much." 

"Then  what  does  it  matter  about  our  fathers? 
We  have  our  own  lives  to  live.  If  we've  found 
happiness  we've  a  right  to  it.  What  happened 
seventeen  years  ago  can't  touch  us  —  not  unless 
we  let  it." 

White-lipped,  drear-eyed,  Roy  faced  her 
hopelessly.  "I  never  thought  of  it  before,  but  it 
is  true  what  the  Bible  says  about  the  sins  of  the 
fathers.  How  can  I  shake  hands  in  friendship 
with  the  man  who  killed  mine?  Would  it  be 
loyal  or  decent  to  go  into  his  family  and  make 
him  my  father  by  marrying  his  daughter?" 

Beulah  stood  close  to  him,  her  eyes  burning 
into  his.  She  was  ready  to  fight  for  her  love  to 
a  finish.  "Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  give  you 
up  now  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  just  when  we've  found  out 
how  much  we  care  .  .  .  because  of  any  reason 

320 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

under  heaven  outside  ourselves?  By  God,  no! 
That's  a  solemn  oath,  Roy  Beaudry.  I'll  not 
let  you  go." 

He  did  not  argue  with  her.  Instead,  he  began 
to  tell  her  of  his  father  and  his  mother.  As  well 
as  he  could  remember  it  he  related  to  her  the 
story  of  that  last  ride  he  had  taken  with  John 
Beaudry.  The  girl  found  herself  visioning  the 
pathetic  tenderness  of  the  father  singing  the 
"li'l'-ole-hawss"  song  under  the  stars  of  their 
night  camp.  There  flashed  to  her  a  picture  of 
him  making  his  stand  in  the  stable  against  the 
flood  of  enemies  pouring  toward  him. 

When  Roy  had  finished,  she  spoke  softly. 
"I  'm  glad  you  told  me.  I  know  now  the  kind  of 
man  your  father  was.  He  loved  you  more  than 
his  own  life.  He  was  brave  and  generous  and 
kind.  Do  you  think  he  would  have  nursed  a 
grudge  for  seventeen  years?  Do  you  think  he 
would  have  asked  you  to  give  up  your  happiness 
to  carry  on  a  feud  that  ought  never  to  have 
been?" 

"No,  but— " 

"You  are  going  to  marry  me,  not  Hal  Ruther- 
ford. He  is  a  good  man  now,  however  wild  he 
may  have  been  once.  But  you  need  n't  believe 
that  just  because  I  say  so.  Wait  and  see.  Be  to 

321 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

him  just  as  much  or  as  little  as  you  like.  He'll 
understand,  and  so  shall  I.  My  people  are 
proud.  They  won't  ask  more  of  you  than  you 
care  to  give.  All  they'll  ask  is  that  you  love 
me  —  and  that's  all  I  ask,  dear." 

"All  you  ask  now,  but  later  you  will  be  un- 
happy because  there  is  a  gulf  between  your 
father  and  me.  You  will  try  to  hide  it,  but  I  '11 
know." 

"I'll  have  to  take  my  chance  of  that,"  she 
told  him.  "I  don't  suppose  that  life  even  with 
the  man  you  love  is  all  happiness.  But  it  is  what 
I  want.  It's  what  I'm  not  going  to  let  your 
scruples  rob  me  of." 

She  spoke  with  a  low- voiced,  passionate  in- 
tensity. The  hillgirl  was  fighting  to  hold  her 
lover  as  a  creature  of  the  woods  does  to  protect 
its  young.  So  long  as  she  was  sure  that  he  loved 
her,  nothing  on  earth  should  come  between 
them.  For  the  moment  she  was  absorbed  by  the 
primitive  idea  that  he  belonged  to  her  and  she 
to  him.  All  the  vital  young  strength  in  her  rose 
to  repel  separation. 

Roy,  yearning  to  take  into  his  arms  this 
dusky,  brown-cheeked  sweetheart  of  his,  be- 
came aware  that  he  did  not  want  her  to  let  his 
arguments  persuade  her.  The  fierce,  tender 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

egoism  of  her  love  filled  him  with  exultant 
pride. 

He  snatched  her  to  him  and  held  her  tight 
while  his  lips  found  her  hot  cheeks,  her  eager 
eyes,  her  more  than  willing  mouth. 


Chapter  XXVII 

The  Quicksands 

BETJLAH  was  too  perfect  of  body,  too  sound 
of  health,  not  to  revel  in  such  a  dawn  as 
swept  across  the  flats  next  morning.  The  sun 
caressed  her  throat,  her  bare  head,  the  uplifted 
face.  As  the  tender  light  of  daybreak  was  in  the 
hills,  so  there  was  a  lilt  in  her  heart  that  found 
expression  in  her  voice,  her  buoyant  footsteps, 
and  the  shine  of  her  eyes.  She  had  slept  soundly 
in  Beaudry's  blankets  while  he  had  lain  down  in 
his  slicker  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire.  Already 
she  was  quite  herself  again.  The  hours  of  agony 
in  the  pit  were  obliterated.  Life  was  a  wholly 
joyous  and  beautiful  adventure. 

She  turned  back  to  the  camp  where  Roy  was 
making  coffee. 

"Am  I  not  to  do  any  of  the  work?" 
At  the  sound  of  that  deep,  sweet  voice  with 
its  hint  of  a  drawl  the  young  man  looked  up  and 
smiled.  "Not  a  bit.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to 
drink  my  coffee  and  say  I  'm  the  best  cook  you 
know." 

324 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

After  they  had  drunk  the  coffee  and  finished 
the  sandwiches,  Roy  saddled. 

"They're  probably  over  to  the  left.  Don't 
you  think  so?"  Beaudry  suggested. 

"Yes." 

There  drifted  to  them  the  sound  of  two  shots 
fired  in  rapid  succession. 

Roy  fired  twice  in  answer.  They  moved  in 
the  direction  of  the  shooting.  Again  the  breeze 
brought  revolver  shots.  This  time  there  were 
three  of  them. 

Beaudry  had  an  odd  feeling  that  this  was  a 
call  for  help  from  somebody  in  difficulties.  He 
quickened  their  pace.  The  nature  of  the  ground, 
a  good  deal  of  which  was  deep  sand,  made  fast 
travel  impossible. 

"Look!"  Beulah  pointed  forward  and  to  the 
right. 

At  the  same  moment  there  came  a  shout. 
"Help!  I'm  in  the  quicksands." 

They  made  out  the  figure  of  a  man  buried  to 
his  waist  in  the  dry  wash  of  a  creek.  A  horse 
stood  on  the  farther  bank  of  the  wash.  Roy  de- 
flected toward  the  man,  Beulah  at  his  heels. 

"He  must  be  caught  in  Dead  Man's  Sink," 
the  girl  explained.  "I've  never  seen  it,  but  I 
know  it  is  somewhere  near  here.  All  my  life  I  Ve 

325 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

heard  of  it.  Two  Norwegians  were  caught  here 
five  years  ago.  Before  help  reached  them,  they 
were  lost." 

"Get  me  a  rope  —  quick,"  the  man  in  the 
sand  called. 

"Why,  it's  Brad,"  cried  Beulah. 

"Yep.  Saw  the  smoke  of  yore  fire  and  got 
caught  trying  to  reach  you.  Can't  make  it  alone. 
Thought  I  sure  was  a  goner.  You'll  have  to 
hurry." 

Already  Roy  was  taking  the  riata  from  its 
place  below  the  saddle-horn.  From  the  edge  of 
the  wash  he  made  a  cast  toward  the  man  in  the 
quicksands.  The  loop  fell  short. 

"You'll  have  to  get  into  the  bed  of  the 
stream,"  suggested  Beulah. 

Beaudry  moved  across  the  sand  a  few  steps 
and  tried  again.  The  distance  was  still  too 
great. 

Already  he  was  beginning  to  bog  down.  The 
soles  of  his  shoes  disappeared  in  the  treacherous 
sand.  When  he  moved  it  seemed  to  him  that 
some  monster  was  sucking  at  him  from  below. 
As  he  dragged  his  feet  from  the  sand  the  sunken 
tracks  filled  with  mud.  He  felt  the  quiver  of  the 
river-bed  trembling  at  his  weight. 

Roy  turned  to  Beulah,  the  old  familiar  cold 
326 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

chill  traveling  up  his  spine  to  the  roots  of  his 
hair.  "It  won't  bear  me  up.  I 'm  going  down," 
he  quavered. 

"Let  me  go,  then.  I'm  lighter,"  she  said 
eagerly. 

She  made  the  proposal  in  all  good  faith,  with 
no  thought  of  reflecting  on  his  courage,  but  it 
stung  her  lover  like  a  slap  in  the  face. 

"Hurry  with  that  rope!"  Charlton  sang 
across.  "I'm  sinking  fast." 

"Is  there  any  way  for  Miss  Rutherford  to  get 
over  to  your  horse?"  asked  Roy  quickly. 

"She  can  cross  the  wash  two  hundred  yards 
below  here.  It's  perfectly  safe." 

As  Roy  plunged  forward,  he  gave  Beulah  or- 
ders without  turning  his  head.  "You  hear,  dear. 
Run  down  and  get  across.  But  go  over  very 
carefully.  If  you  come  to  a  bad  place,  go  back 
at  once.  When  you  get  over  tie  Charl ton's  rope 
to  his  saddle-horn  and  throw  him  the  looped 
end.  The  horse  will  drag  him  out." 

The  young  woman  was  off  on  the  run  before 
he  had  half  finished. 

Once  more  Roy  coiled  and  threw  the  rope. 
Charlton  caught  the  loop,  slipped  it  over  his 
head,  and  tightened  it  under  his  arms. 

"All  right.  Pull!  "he  ordered. 
327 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Beaudry  had  no  footing  to  brace  himself.  Al- 
ready he  was  ankle-deep  in  the  quicksand.  It 
flashed  across  his  mind  that  he  could  not  fight 
his  own  way  out  without  abandoning  Charlton. 
For  one  panicky  moment  he  was  mad  to  get 
back  to  solid  ground  himself.  The  next  he  was 
tugging  with  all  the  strength  of  his  arms  at  the 
rope. 

"Keep  on  the  job!"  encouraged  Charlton. 
"You're  pulling  my  body  over  a  little  so  that 
the  weight  is  on  new  sand.  If  Beulah  gets  here 
in  time,  I'll  make  it." 

Roy  pulled  till  his  muscles  ached.  His  own 
feet  were  sliding  slowly  from  under  him.  The 
water-bubbles  that  oozed  out  of  the  sand  were 
now  almost  at  his  high  boot-tops.  It  was  too 
late  to  think  of  retreat.  He  must  go  through 
whether  he  wanted  to  or  not. 

He  cast  one  look  down  the  dry  river-bed. 
Beulah  was  just  picking  her  way  across.  She 
might  get  over  in  time  to  save  Charlton,  but 
before  they  made  it  back  across  to  him,  he 
would  be  lost. 

He  wanted  to  scream  aloud  to  her  his  urgent 
need,  to  beg  her,  for  Heaven's  sake,  to  hurry. 
The  futility  of  it  he  knew.  She  was  already  run- 
ning with  the  knowledge  to  wing  her  feet  that  a 

328 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

man's  life  hung  in  the  balance.  Besides,  Charl- 
ton  was  not  shrieking  his  fears  out.  He  was 
calling  cheerful  words  of  hope  across  the  quak- 
ing morass  of  sand  that  separated  them.  There 
was  no  use  in  making  a  gibbering  idiot  of  one's 
self.  Beaudry  clenched  his  jaws  tight  on  the 
cries  that  rose  like  a  thermometer  of  terror  in 
his  throat. 

With  every  ounce  of  strength  that  was  in  him 
he  fought,  meanwhile,  for  the  life  of  the  man  at 
the  other  end  of  the  rope.  Before  Beulah 
reached  Charlton,  Roy  was  in  deeper  than  his 
knees.  He  shut  his  eyes  and  pulled  like  a  ma- 
chine. It  seemed  an  eternity  before  Charlton 
called  to  him  to  let  go  the  rope. 

A  new  phase  of  his  danger  seared  like  a  flame 
across  the  brain  of  Beaudry.  He  had  dragged 
himself  from  a  perpendicular  position.  As  soon 
as  he  let  loose  of  the  rope  he  would  begin  to  sink 
forward.  This  would  reduce  materially  the  time 
before  his  face  would  sink  into  the  sand. 

Why  not  hang  on  and  let  the  horse  drag  him 
out,  too?  He  had  as  much  right  to  live  as  Charl- 
ton. Was  there  any  law  of  justice  that  forced 
him  to  throw  away  the  rope  that  was  his  only 
hope? 

But  he  knew  the  tough  little  cowpony  could 
329 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

not  drag  two  heavy  men  from  the  quicksands  at 
the  same  time.  If  he  held  tight,  Charlton,  too, 
would  be  sacrificed.  His  fingers  opened. 

Roy  watched  the  struggle  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  wash.  Charlton  was  in  almost  to  his 
arm-pits.  The  horse  braced  its  feet  and  pulled. 
Beulah,  astride  the  saddle,  urged  it  to  the  task 
again  and  again.  At  first  by  imperceptible 
gains,  then  inch  by  inch,  the  man  was  dragged 
from  the  mire  that  fought  with  a  thousand 
clinging  tentacles  for  its  prey. 

Not  till  Charlton  was  safe  on  the  bank  did 
Beulah  realize  the  peril  of  Beaudry.  One  glance 
across  the  river  showed  her  that  he  was  sliding 
face  downward  to  a  shifting  grave.  With  an 
anguished  little  cry  she  released  the  rope  from 
Charlton's  body,  flung  herself  to  the  saddle 
again,  and  dashed  down  the  bank  of  the 
creek. 

Roy  lost  count  of  time.  His  face  was  sliding 
down  toward  the  sand.  Soon  his  mouth  and 
nostrils  would  be  stopped.  He  believed  that  it 
was  a  question  of  minutes  with  him. 

Came  the  swift  pounding  of  hoofs  and  Beu- 
lah's  clear,  ringing  voice. 

"Hold  your  hands  straight  out,  Roy." 

His  back  was  toward  her,  so  that  he  did  not 
330 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

see  what  she  meant  to  do.  But  he  obeyed 
blindly.  With  a  wrench  first  one  hand  and  then 
the  other  came  free  from  the  sand  and  wavered 
into  the  air  heavily.  A  rope  sang,  dropped  over 
his  arms  and  head,  tightened  with  a  jerk  around 
his  waist. 

Two  monsters  seemed  to  be  trying  to  tear  him 
in  two.  A  savage  wrench  of  pain  went  through 
him  jaggedly.  At  short  intervals  this  was  re- 
peated. 

In  spite  of  the  suction  of  the  muddy  sand  he 
felt  its  clutch  giving  way.  It  loosened  a  little 
here,  a  little  there.  His  body  began  to  move. 
After  a  long  tug  he  came  out  at  last  with  a  rush. 
But  he  left  his  high  cowpuncher's  boots  behind. 
They  remained  buried  out  of  sight  in  the  sand. 
He  had  literally  been  dragged  out  of  them. 

Roy  felt  himself  pulled  shoreward.  From 
across  the  quicksands  came  Charlton's  whoop 
of  triumph.  Presently  Beulah  was  stooping  over 
him  with  tender  little  cries  of  woe  and  joy. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  wan,  tired  smile.  "I 
did  n't  think  you'd  make  it  in  time."  In  a  mo- 
ment he  added:  "I  was  horribly  afraid.  God,  it 
was  awful!" 

"Of  course.  Who  would  n't  have  been  ? "  She 
dismissed  his  confession  as  of  no  importance. 

331 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"But  it's  all  over  now.  I  want  to  hug  you  tight 
to  make  sure  you're  here,  boy." 

"There's  no  law  against  it,"  he  said  with 
feeble  humor. 

"No,  but  -  With  a  queer  little  laugh  she 
glanced  across  the  river  toward  her  former  lover. 
"I  don't  think  I  had  better." 

Charlton  joined  them  a  few  minutes  later. 
He  went  straight  to  Roy  and  offered  his  hand. 

"The  feud  stuff  is  off,  Mr.  Beaudry.  Beulah 
will  tell  you  that  I  started  in  to  make  you 
trouble.  Well,  there's  nothing  doing  in  that 
line.  I  can't  fight  the  man  who  saved  my  life  at 
the  risk  of  his  own." 

"Oh,  well!"  Roy  blushed.  "I  just  threw  you 
a  rope." 

:<  You  bogged  down  some,"  Charlton  returned 
dryly.  "I've  known  men  who  would  have 
thought  several  times  before  throwing  that  rope 
from  where  you  did.  They  would  have  hated  to 
lose  their  boots." 

Beulah's  eyes  shone.  "Oh,  Brad,  I 'm  so  glad. 
I  do  want  you  two  to  be  friends." 

"Do  you?"  As  he  looked  at  her,  the  eyes  of 
the  young  hillman  softened.  He  guessed  pretty 
accurately  the  state  of  her  feelings.  Beaudry 
had  won  and  he  had  lost.  Well,  he  was  going  to 

332 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

be  a  good  loser  this  time.  "What  you  want  goes 
with  me  this  time,  Boots.  The  way  you  yanked 
me  out  of  the  sinks  was  painful,  but  thorough. 
I'll  be  a  friend  to  Mr.  Beaudry  if  he  is  of  the 
same  opinion  as  you.  And  I  '11  dance  at  his  wed- 
ding when  it  comes  off." 

She  cried  out  at  that,  but  Charlton  noticed 
that  she  made  no  denial.  Neither  did  Roy.  He 
confined  his  remarks  to  the  previous  question, 
and  said  that  he  would  be  very  glad  of  Charl- 
ton's  friendship. 

"Good  enough.  Then  I  reckon  we  better 
light  out  for  camp  with  the  glad  news  that  Beu- 
lah  has  been  found.  You  can  tell  me  all  about 
it  on  the  way,"  the  hillman  suggested. 

Beulah  dropped  from  her  horse  ten  minutes 
later  into  the  arms  of  Ned  Rutherford.  Quite 
unexpectedly  to  himself,  that  young  man  found 
himself  filled  with  emotion.  He  caught  his  sister 
in  his  arms  and  held  her  as  if  he  never  intended 
to  let  the  sobbing  girl  go.  His  own  voice  was  not 
at  all  steady. 

"Boots  -  -  Boots  .  .  .  Honey-bug  .  .  .  Where 
you-all  been?"  he  asked,  choking  up  suddenly. 


Chapter  XXVIII 

Pat  Ryan  Evens  an  Old  Score 

DINGWELL,  the  coffee-pot  in  one  hand 
and  a  tin  cup  in  the  other,  hailed  his  part- 
ner cheerfully.  "Come  over  here,  son,  and  tell 
me  who  you  traded  yore  boots  to." 

"You  and  Brad  been  taking  a  mud  bath,  Mr. 
Beaudry?"  asked  one  of  the  Lazy  Double  D 
riders. 

Roy  told  them,  with  reservations,  the  story  of 
the  past  twenty-four  hours.  Dave  listened,  an 
indifferent  manner  covering  a  quick  interest. 
His  young  friend  had  done  for  himself  a  good 
stroke  of  business.  There  could  no  longer  be 
any  question  of  the  attitude  of  the  Rutherfords 
toward  him,  since  he  had  been  of  so  great  service 
to  Beulah.  Charlton  had  renounced  his  enmity, 
the  ground  cut  from  beneath  his  feet.  Word  had 
reached  camp  only  an  hour  before  of  the  death 
of  Tighe.  This  left  of  Beaudry's  foes  only  Hart, 
who  did  not  really  count,  and  Dan  Mel  drum,  at 
the  present  moment  facing  starvation  in  a  pros- 
pect hole.  On  the  whole,  it  had  been  a  surpris- 
ingly good  twenty-four  hours  for  Roy.  His  part- 

334 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

ner  saw  this,  though  he  did  not  know  the  best 
thing  Roy  had  won  out  of  it. 

"Listens  fine,"  the  old-timer  commented 
when  the  young  man  had  finished. 

"Can  you  rustle  me  a  pair  of  boots  from  one 
of  the  boys,  Dave?  Size  number  eight.  I've  got 
to  run  back  up  Del  Oro  to-day." 

"Better  let  me  go,  son,"  Dave  proposed 
casually. 

"No.  It's  my  job  to  turn  the  fellow  loose." 

"  Well,  see  he  does  n't  get  the  drop  on  you.  I 
would  n't  trust  him  far  as  I  could  throw  a  bull 
by  the  tail." 

Dingwell  departed  to  borrow  the  boots  and 
young  Rutherford  came  over  to  Beaudry.  Out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye  Roy  observed  that  Beu- 
lah  was  talking  with  the  little  Irish  puncher, 
Pat  Ryan. 

Rutherford  plunged  awkwardly  into  his 
thanks.  His  sister  had  made  only  a  partial 
confidant  of  him,  but  he  knew  that  she  was 
under  obligations  to  Beaudry  for  the  rescue 
from  Meldrum.  The  girl  had  not  dared  tell  her 
brother  that  the  outlaw  was  still  within  his 
reach.  She  knew  how  impulsively  his  anger 
would  move  to  swift  action. 

"We  Rutherfords  ain't  liable  to  forget  this, 
335 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Mr.  Beaudry.  Dad  has  been  'most  crazy  since 
Boots  disappeared.  He'll  sure  want  to  thank 
you  himself  soon  as  he  gets  a  chance,"  blurted 
Ned. 

"I  happened  to  be  the  lucky  one  to  find  her; 
that's  all,"  Roy  depreciated. 

"Sure.  I  understand.  But  you  did  find  her. 
That 's  the  point.  Dad  won't  rest  easy  till  he 's 
seen  you.  I  'm  going  to  take  sis  right  home  with 
me.  Can't  you  come  along?" 

Roy  wished  he  could,  but  it  happened  that 
he  had  other  fish  to  fry.  He  shook  his  head 
reluctantly. 

Dingwell  returned  with  a  pair  of  high-heeled 
cowpuncher's  boots.  "Try  these  on,  son.  They 
belong  to  Dusty.  The  lazy  hobo  was  n't  up  yet. 
If  they  fit  you,  he  '11  ride  back  to  the  ranch  in  his 
socks." 

After  stamping  about  in  the  boots  to  test 
them,  Roy  decided  that  they  would  do.  "They 
fit  like  a  coat  of  paint,"  he  said. 

"Say,  son,  I'm  going  to  hit  the  trail  with  you 
on  that  little  jaunt  you  mentioned,"  his  partner 
announced  definitely. 

Roy  was  glad.  He  had  of  late  been  fed  to  re- 
pletion with  adventure.  He  did  not  want  any 
more,  and  with  Dingwell  along  he  was  not  likely 

336 


The  Sheriff 's  Son 

to  meet  it.  Already  he  had  observed  that  adven- 
tures generally  do  not  come  to  the  adventurous, 
but  to  the  ignorant  and  the  incompetent.  Dave 
moved  with  a  smiling  confidence  along  rough 
trails  that  would  have  worried  his  inexperienced 
partner.  To  the  old-timer  these  difficulties  were 
not  dangers  at  all,  because  he  knew  how  to  meet 
them  easily. 

They  rode  up  Del  Oro  by  the  same  route 
Roy  and  Beulah  had  followed  the  previous 
night.  Before  noon  they  were  close  to  the 
prospect  hole  where  Roy  had  left  the  rustler. 
The  sound  of  voices  brought  them  up  in  their 
tracks. 

They  listened.  A  whine  was  in  one  voice;  in 
the  other  was  crisp  command. 

"Looks  like  some  one  done  beat  us  to  it," 
drawled  Dingwell.  "We'll  move  on  and  see 
what's  doing." 

They  topped  the  brow  of  a  hill. 

A  bow-legged  little  man  with  his  back  to  them 
was  facing  Dan  Meldrum. 

"I'm  going  along  with  yez  as  far  as  the  bor- 
der. You'll  keep  moving  lively  till  ye  hit  the 
hacienda  of  old  Porf.  Diaz.  And  you'll  stay 
there.  Mind  that  now,  Dan.  Don't  — 

The  ex-convict  broke  in  with  the  howl  of  a 
337 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

trapped  wolf.  "You've  lied  to  me.  You  brought 
yore  friends  to  kill  me." 

The  six-gun  of  the  bad  man  blazed  once  - 
twice.  In  answer  the  revolver  of  the  bandy- 
legged puncher  barked  out,  fired  from  the  hip. 
Meldrum  staggered,  stumbled,  pitched  forward 
into  the  pit.  The  man  who  had  killed  him 
walked  slowly  forward  to  the  edge  and  looked 
down.  He  stood  poised  for  another  shot  if  one 
should  prove  necessary. 

Dave  joined  him. 

"He's  dead  as  a  stuck  shote,  Pat,"  the  cattle- 
man said  gravely. 

Ryan  nodded.  "  You  saw  he  fired  first,  Dave." 

"Yes."  After  a  moment  he  added:  "You've 
saved  the  hangman  a  job,  Pat.  I  don't  know 
anybody  Washington  County  could  spare  bet- 
ter. There'll  be  no  complaint,  I  reckon." 

The  little  Irishman  shook  his  head.  "That 
would  go  fine  if  you  had  shot  him,  Dave,  or  if 
Mr.  Beaudry  here  had.  But  with  me  it's  differ- 
ent. I've  been  sivinteen  years  living  down  a 
reputation  as  a  hellion.  This  ain't  going  to  do 
me  any  good.  Folks  will  say  it  was  a  case  of  one 
bad  man  wiping  out  another.  They  '11  say  I  've 
gone  back  to  being  a  gunman.  I'll  be  in  bad 
sure  as  taxes." 

338 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Dingwell  looked  at  him,  an  idea  dawning  in 
his  mind.  Why  not  keep  from  the  public  the 
name  of  the  man  who  had  shot  Meldrum?  The 
position  of  the  wound  and  the  revolver  clenched 
in  the  dead  man's  hand  yvould  show  he  had  come 
to  his  end  in  fair  fight.  The  three  of  them  might 
sign  a  statement  to  the  effect  that  one  of  them 
had  killed  the  fellow  in  open  battle.  The  doubt 
as  to  which  one  would  stimulate  general  inter- 
est. No  doubt  the  gossips  would  settle  on  Beau- 
dry  as  the  one  who  had  done  it.  This  would  still 
further  enhance  his  reputation  as  a  good  man 
with  whom  not  to  pick  trouble. 

"Suits  me  if  it  does  Roy,"  the  cattleman  said, 
speaking  his  thoughts  aloud.  "How  about  it, 
son?  Pat  is  right.  This  will  hurt  him,  but  it 
would  n't  hurt  you  or  me  a  bit.  Say  the  word 
and  all  three  of  us  will  refuse  to  tell  which  one 
shot  Meldrum." 

"I'm  willing,"  Roy  agreed.  "And  I've  been 
looking  up  ancient  history,  Mr.  Ryan.  I  don't 
think  you  were  as  bad  as  you  painted  yourself 
to  me  once.  I  'm  ready  to  shake  hands  with  you 
whenever  you  like." 

The  little  Irishman  flushed.  He  shook  hands 
with  shining  eyes. 

"That's  why  I  was  tickled  when  Miss  Beulah 
339 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

asked  me  to  come  up  and  turn  loose  that  coyote. 
It's  a  God's  truth  that  I  hoped  he'd  fight.  I 
wanted  to  do  you  a  good  bit  of  wolf -killing  if 
I  could.  And  I've  done  it  ...  and  I'm  not 
sorry.  He  had  it  coming  if  iver  a  man  had." 

"Did  you  say  that  Beulah  Rutherford  sent 
you  up  here?"  asked  Roy. 

"She  asked  me  to  come.  Yis." 

"Why?" 

"I  can  only  guess  her  reasons.  She  did  n't 
want  you  to  come  and  she  could  n't  ask  Ned  for 
fear  he  would  gun  the  fellow.  So  she  just  picked 
on  a  red-headed  runt  of  an  Irishman." 

"While  we're  so  close,  let's  ride  across  to 
Huerfano  Park,"  suggested  Dave.  "I  have  n't 
been  there  in  twenty  years." 

That  suited  Roy  exactly.  As  they  rode  across 
the  hills  his  mind  was  full  of  Beulah.  She  had 
sent  Ryan  up  so  that  he  could  get  Meldrum 
away  before  her  lover  arrived.  Was  it  because 
she  was  afraid  Roy  might  show  the  white 
feather?  Or  was  it  because  she  feared  for  his 
safety?  He  wished  he  knew. 


Chapter  XXIX 

A  New  Leaf 

HAL  RUTHERFORD  himself  met  the 
three  riders  as  they  drew  up  at  the  horse 
ranch.  He  asked  no  verbal  questions,  but  his 
eyes  ranged  curiously  from  one  to  another. 

"'Light,  gentlemen.  I  been  wanting  to  see 
you  especially,  Mr.  Beaudry,"  he  said. 

"I  reckon  you  know  where  we've  been,  Hal," 
answered  Dave  after  he  had  dismounted. 

"I  reckon." 

"We  got  a  little  news  for  public  circulation. 
You  can  pass  the  word  among  the  boys.  Dan 
Meldrum  was  shot  three  hours  ago  beside  the 
pit  where  Miss  Beulah  was  imprisoned.  His 
body  is  in  the  prospect  hole  now.  You  might 
send  some  lads  with  spades  to  bury  him." 

"One  of  you  shot  him." 

:<You  done  guessed  it,  Hal.  One  of  us  helped 
him  out  of  that  pit  intending  to  see  he  hit  the 
dust  to  Mexico.  Dan  was  loaded  to  the  guards 
with  suspicions.  He  chose  to  make  it  a  gun- 
play. Fired  twice.  The  one  of  us  that  took  him 
out  of  the  pit  fired  back  and  dropped  him  first 

341 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

crack.  All  of  us  saw  the  affair.  It  happened  just 
as  I've  told  you." 

"But  which  of  you—  ?" 

"  That 's  the  only  point  we  can't  remember.  It 
was  one  of  us,  but  we've  forgotten  which  one." 

"Suits  me  if  it  does  you.  I'll  thank  all  three 
of  you,  then."  Rutherford  cleared  his  throat 
and  plunged  on.  "Boys,  to-day  kinder  makes 
an  epoch  in  Huerfano  Park.  Jess  Tighe  died 
yesterday  and  Dan  Meldrum  to-day.  They 
were  both  bad  citizens.  There  were  others  of  us 
that  were  bad  citizens,  too.  Well,  it's  right- 
about face  for  us.  We  travel  broad  trails  from 
now  on.  Right  now  the  park  starts  in  to  make 
a  new  record  for  itself." 

Dave  offered  his  hand,  and  with  it  went  the 
warm  smile  that  made  him  the  most  popular 
man  in  Washington  County.  "Listens  fine, 
Hal.  I  sure  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so." 

"I  niver  had  any  kick  against  the  Ruther- 
fords.  They  were  open  and  aboveboard,  any- 
how, in  all  their  diviltry,"  contributed  Ryan  to 
the  pact  of  peace. 

Nobody  looked  at  Roy,  but  he  felt  the  weight 
of  their  thoughts.  All  four  of  them  bore  in  mind 
the  death  of  John  Beaudry.  His  son  spoke 
quietly. 

342 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Mr.  Rutherford,  I've  been  thinking  of  my 
father  a  good  deal  these  last  few  days.  I  want 
to  do  as  he  would  have  me  do  about  this  thing. 
I  'm  not  going  to  chop  my  words.  He  gave  his 
life  to  bring  law  and  order  into  this  country. 
The  men  who  killed  him  were  guilty  of  murder. 
That's  an  ugly  word,  but  it's  the  true  one." 

The  grim  face  of  the  big  hillman  did  not 
twitch.  "I'll  take  the  word  from  you.  Goon." 

"But  I've  been  thinking  more  and  more  that 
he  would  want  me  to  forget  that.  Tighe  and 
Mel  drum  are  gone.  Sheriff  Beaudry  worked  for 
the  good  of  the  community.  That  is  all  he 
asked.  It  is  for  the  best  interest  of  Washington 
County  that  we  bury  the  past.  If  you  say  so, 
I'll  shake  hands  on  that  and  we'll  all  face  to  the 
future,  just  as  you  say." 

Ding  well  grinned.  "Hooray!  Big  Chief  Dave 
will  now  make  oration.  You've  got  the  right 
idea,  son.  I  knew  Jack  Beaudry.  There  was  n't 
an  atom  of  revenge  in  his  game  body.  His  ad- 
vice would  have  been  to  shake  hands.  That's 
mine,  too." 

The  hillman  and  Roy  followed  it. 

Upon  the  porch  a  young  woman  appeared. 
"I've  written  those  letters  for  you,  dad,"  she 
called. 

343 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

Roy  deserted  the  peace  conference  at  once 
and  joined  her. 

"'  Oh !  I  did  n't  know  it  was  you,"  she  cried. 
"I'm  so  glad  you  came  this  way.  Was  it  ...  all 
right?" 

"Right  as  the  wheat.  Why  did  you  send  Pat 
up  Del  Oro?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  incredibly  kind 
and  shy.  "Because  I  ...  did  n't  want  to  run 
any  chance  of  losing  my  new  beau." 

"Are  you  sure  that  was  your  only  reason?" 

"  Certain  sure.  I  did  n't  trust  Meldrum,  and 
...  I  thought  you  had  taken  chances  enough 
with  him.  So  I  gave  Mr.  Ryan  an  opportunity." 

"He  took  it,"  her  lover  answered  gravely. 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly.  "You  mean  — ?" 

"  Never  mind  what  I  mean  now.  We  've  more 
important  things  to  talk  about.  I  have  n't  seen 
you  for  eight  hours,  and  thirty-three  minutes." 

Rutherford  turned  his  guests  over  to  Ned, 
who  led  the  way  to  the  stable.  The  ranchman 
joined  the  lovers.  He  put  an  arm  around 
Beulah. 

"Boots  has  done  told  me  about  you  two,  Mr. 
Beaudry.  I'm  eternally  grateful  to  you  for 
bringing  back  my  little  girl  to  me,  and  if  you- 
all  feel  right  sure  you  care  for  each  other  I've 

344 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

got  nothing  to  say  but '  God  bless  you.'  You  're 
a  white  man.  You're  decent.  I  believe  you'll 
be  kind  to  her." 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  the  best  I  know,  Mr. 
Rutherford." 

"  You  'd  better,  young  man."  The  big  rancher 
swallowed  a  lump  in  his  throat  and  passed  to 
another  phase  of  the  subject.  "Boots  was  tell- 
ing me  about  how  it  kinder  stuck  in  yore  craw 
to  marry  the  daughter  of  Hal  Rutherford,  seeing 
as  how  things  happened  the  way  they  did.  Well, 
I'm  going  to  relieve  yore  mind.  She's  the  one 
that  has  got  the  forgiving  to  do,  not  you.  She 
knew  it  all  the  time,  too,  but  she  did  n't  tell  it. 
Beulah  is  the  daughter  of  my  brother  Anse.  I 
took  her  from  the  arms  of  her  dying  mother 
when  she  was  a  little  trick  that  could  n't  crawl. 
She's  not  the  daughter  of  the  man  that  shot 
yore  father.  She 's  the  daughter  of  the  man  yore 
father  shot." 

"Oh!  "gasped  Roy. 

Beulah  went  to  her  lover  arrow-swift. 

"My  dear  .  .  .  my  dear!  What  does  it  matter 
now?  Dad  says  my  father  was  killed  in  fair 
fight.  He  had  set  himself  against  the  law.  It 
took  his  life.  Your  father  did  n't." 

"But—" 

345 


The  Sheriff's  Son 

"Oh,  his  was  the  hand.  But  he  was  sheriff. 
He  did  only  his  duty.  That 's  true,  is  n't  it, 
dad?" 

"I  reckon." 

Her  strong  young  hands  gripped  tightly  those 
of  her  lover.  She  looked  proudly  into  his  eyes 
with  that  little  flare  of  feminine  ferocity  in  hers. 

"I  won't  have  it  any  other  way,  Roy  Beau- 
dry.  You're  the  man  I'm  going  to  marry,  the 
man  who  is  going  to  be  the  father  of  my  children 
if  God  gives  me  any.  No  blood  stands  between 
us  —  nothing  but  the  memory  of  brave  men 
who  misunderstood  each  other  and  were  hurt 
because  of  it.  Our  marriage  puts  an  end  forever 
to  even  the  memory  of  the  wrong  they  did  each 
other.  That  is  the  way  it  is  to  me  —  and  that 's 
the  way  it  has  got  to  be  to  you,  too." 

Roy  laughed  softly,  tears  in  his  eyes.  As  he 
looked  at  her  eager  young  beauty  the  hot  life 
in  his  pulses  throbbed.  He  snatched  her  to  him 
with  an  ardor  as  savage  as  her  own. 


THE   END 
OF   THE   BEGINNING 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWE1 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  n 


LD  2lA-40m-4,' 
(D6471slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  686 


